Freezing People is (Not) Easy (12 page)

About a month after the vault was completed, water started seeping through the walls. We had excessive amounts of waterproof insulation, but it made little difference. Six months after construction, the vault was accumulating a foot of water per day. We spent several hours each day pumping out and mopping up. The room became a haven for black widow spiders, slugs, and snails. Once we found a garter snake swimming among the capsules in the murky mess.

Time passed, and my early hopes faded. The predicted boom in cryonics patients never materialized. I was dumbfounded that we had no new patients who could afford the expense of cryonics. I had taken on too much too soon and made an unwise gamble of trying to save the lives of my friends. I had a state-of-the-art cryogenic capsule capable of holding up to thirty patients. There it was, sitting on a hill in the back of the cemetery just waiting to be used. But timing in so many aspects of life meant the difference between success and failure. For us the timing was bad, and success remained elusive. The huge twenty-four-hundred-gallon vessel was never installed—never used to save the frozen heroes who needed it so desperately.

Chapter 7

Lost Hope

Mr. Hope's capsule as presently constructed is too costly and it appears that he hasn't had the money or urge in recent months to improve it, which I suppose is understandable, but I don't relish the idea of rotting in one of his liquid nitrogen containers. I've always thought it appeared to be a portion of a storm drain with each end welded shut.

—Letter from Russ Stanley to Robert Ettinger,
dated January 7, 1966

 

With Frank Farrell's help, I completed the vault.
We were now ready to permanently store our patients; however, both the CSC and I were broke. Two years of my life and several thousand dollars had disappeared caring for these people, and now I was out of options. I needed to borrow five hundred dollars from the bank, but I dreaded asking my wife to cosign a loan. My family had suffered through numerous lean years while I dumped my scarce funds into maintaining our frozen friends.

I pulled my car into the driveway at our home, carefully considering my words for this unfair request. I glanced in my rearview mirror and then turned away, unable to look at myself.

When I walked into the house, she knew something was wrong. I was never at home in the middle of the afternoon. I steeled my nerves and plunged into the story.

When I finished, Elaine sat there for five minutes studying her hands. Then she replied in a quiet voice, “This cryonics is ruining our life, ruining our marriage, and consigning me to only half a life. It's put us in poverty, put our kids in jeopardy, and you're asking me for more? My little bit of credit?” She didn't sound accusatory; she was just stating reality.

“Please, I'm desperate. I'm on my knees begging.” I took her hands in mine, hoping to convince her. I would sacrifice every last shred of pride to persuade her, but I also knew she loved me, despite everything, and that she wouldn't say no.

She sighed and agreed. We went to the bank together, and she signed. When that money was gone, we were no better off than before.

The 1970 National Cryonics Conference at the Airport Marina Hotel in Los Angeles was fast approaching, and I had planned to give walking tours of the vault. I never told the other cryonics members, but the convention was my last hope. Unfortunately, the Nisco capsule was not holding a vacuum and was wasting liquid nitrogen like a leaky faucet. I didn't have the money to replenish it two to three times per week. We managed to get the vault completed and to install the capsule just a few days before the conference. I tried hiding my desperation both to the people attending the conference and to the other CSC members. Such obvious and blatant need would have invited too many questions.

I showed the vault to Professor Ettinger and several prominent cryonicists, but no one at the conference offered financial help. Despair was closing in fast! I knew the last few grains of sand were emptying from the hourglass. I could stall with temporary solutions no longer—the permanent lodgings I had hoped for had never developed, and now the permanent solution was likely going to be death. Before I could decide the fate of this failing capsule, I had to take a pilgrimage and reconcile the fate of my dear friends, for I could carry them no more.

My magical Shangri-La was deep in the desert, an oasis free from people and the agonies of life. Planning to stay from sunrise to sunset, I brought a big blanket, several jugs of water, fruit, writing material, and my huge black Belgian shepherd, Bull.

I traveled east out of the San Fernando Valley, passing Magic Mountain and heading toward Palmdale. I turned off the Antelope Valley Freeway for my hidden spot, crossed streams, and traversed miles of barren desert, cruising into oblivion in my beloved red Porsche Speedster. I worried about getting stuck here; however, I knew deep down that nothing bad could happen in this enticing place. I looked over at Bull sitting beside me, nose out the window, black ears flapping in the wind; he was loving every minute of this trek.

I realized I was fighting to preserve experiences like these—this feeling of unbridled, unguarded
life.
I wasn't interested in cryonics for mere survival; it was to provide humanity with as many of these moments as possible. No boundaries should hold people back from the joy of life.

Extended life through cryonics is part of the natural evolution of medicine and could provide a second chance to people, especially the young, whom fate had given an incurable disease. If I were suspended and reanimated centuries from now, I might not have my family by my side anymore, but I would still manage to experience the same joy I found on this day and in this place of solitude. If I were shipwrecked on a deserted island, inexorably separated from my family for the remainder of my life, I would still embrace all the wonders of life.

Dodging the roadrunners, rabbits, and tumbleweeds crossing in front of our vehicle, I traveled about four miles northeast toward the San Gabriel Mountains. The mountains fed a wide creek, flowing strong and fast like a river snake across the desert floor and extending into infinity at the horizon. The beiges and browns of the barren desert transitioned near the creek bank into a verdant paradise lush with small trees, brush, and flowers—as diverse, untouched, and sanctified as Ecuador's Galapagos Islands. After reaching the water, I traveled a half mile upstream to a conglomeration of boulders. Surrounded by the floral aura of an altar, I claimed this place as my very own world. Bull had leapt from the vehicle and dashed into the water; he was gone exploring for hours. We both shared the same excitement generated by the mystery of this glorious place.

I spread out my blanket and waded into the cold, crystal-clear stream for hours; hummingbirds and badgers kept rambling to the creek bank to check on me. After a few hours of feeling the warm sunlight on my face, I allowed my mind to confront the ghastly dilemma of no money and a worn-out, malfunctioning cryo-capsule.

I had always been ruled by emotion—not logic. I was a passionate crusader, not a businessman. In retrospect, if I had said no to a few people and spent my money on a better infrastructure, then all the CSC funds wouldn't have evaporated with the liquid nitrogen and dry ice. I could have built a solid foundation so that I could realistically say yes to later candidates. But those frozen heroes were my friends, and I thought of them as family. Like anyone else, I wanted to fight for my family. And I was an optimist; I had been confident something would succeed for our patients so that my promises could be redeemed. I had been the least-likely candidate for this responsibility. I wasn't a scientist, but fate must've known something. I had relied on that fate to make this work somehow.

The answers came swiftly and clear, carried into my heart, mind, and soul by the gentle summer breeze.

I have to face that this is as far as I can take you, my beloved friends. I have tried with all my might, but I have to let go. I can no longer bear this enormous load alone. Please forgive me.

I was saying good-bye to these friends, and it broke my heart. First I considered Russ Stanley. Russ had accomplished so much to advance the cryonics movement and was an outspoken advocate. However, he left only ten thousand dollars to the society. While that amount was more than anyone else had given, it was insufficient to purchase a good capsule in addition to the maintenance costs. After his death, I had placed him in temporary storage since we had no reliable capsule available; my conscience could see it no other way. We tried our best during those early days. The dry ice replacement for two years cost almost his entire bequest—$9,600—not counting gasoline for the weekly hundred-mile drive.

I remembered a letter he had written to Professor Ettinger in 1966, and it compounded my guilt. Russ wrote: “I don't relish the idea of rotting in one of those liquid nitrogen containers. I've always thought it appeared to be a portion of a storm drain with each end welded shut.”

This image he had abhorred was exactly the fate I was trying to reconcile in my mind. I felt like an executioner, condemning him to rot in that capsule because I had failed. Russ had no family and told me he had no one in his life to care.

Next I considered Marie Sweet. I hadn't known Marie very well, but she was a whirlwind of a soul who spent her life fighting for the rights of others. She was a heroine of the women's rights movement. Marie had arranged the first national cryonics conference almost completely by herself. She died without money and, even more disastrously, had been dead two days before she was discovered and cooled down. That fact alone probably sealed her fate.

Again I had to acknowledge the loss, just as for Russ.
This is as far as I can take you, my sweet Ms. Sweet. It was an honor to know you in this lifetime.

My third patient was Helen Kline, whom I had met at the initial cryonics meeting in 1966. She accomplished so much for a tiny, broke, dying little lady. She never expected to be frozen, although it was her fondest wish. Three weeks before her death, she sent CSC a check for one hundred dollars. It was a parting gift from a precious soul.
Au revoir, sweet lady. You made one hell of a try. You are my hero and an example of what can be accomplished when a person has nothing but faith and a burning desire.

The final and by far most difficult decision was for Louis Nisco. He was already frozen when I took responsibility for him. His daughter had interred him into one of the first capsules, but she had no place to store the capsule or pay for maintenance. The final deathblow came when his capsule kept failing to keep its vacuum and hold the expensive liquid nitrogen.

Fate had already determined my options. I had always had a revulsion of death, and that sentiment probably motivated my strong devotion to cryonics. For years I had persistent dreams in which I woke up in a coffin. I could see my family crying, but I couldn't speak to them or console them. I always had avoided funerals, with the exception of my stepfather's. Since I'd taken up with cryonics, my dreams had ceased.

I hung my head low, remembering that this wasn't about me but about my four patients. I was killing them and felt sure that my nightmares would return. I trudged out of my pristine Garden of Eden and returned to the cemetery vault, yielding to the Grim Intruder. Now penniless, I had no choice but to watch as the remaining liquid nitrogen boiled off, drop by precious drop, sealing the fate of the friends within. Even if someone had donated a few thousand dollars for liquid nitrogen replacement, it would only have prolonged the agony. I swallowed hard as the last bit of vapor dissipated into the night sky, mortified at the notion that it carried away the spirits of my four friends.

I had witnessed something not required of any human in history: Death had taken my friends twice. This time there was no chance of them coming back. I had fallen short, and I had to accept the responsibility for that failure—alone.

Chapter 8

Newfound Hope

In September 1970 I received a call from
brothers Dennis and Terry Harrington, who lived in Des Moines, Iowa. Their mother, Mildred, was dying of cancer, and they wanted to know if she could be frozen. Performing a perfusion in the Midwest intrigued me, but I had several requirements to make this work.

For a ten-thousand-dollar donation, Joseph Klockgether, Professor Ettinger, and I would fly to Iowa, perform the perfusion, ship the body to California, and keep Mildred in temporary storage. Once she was in a capsule, the brothers agreed to pay one hundred to three hundred dollars monthly for the liquid nitrogen until the thirty-patient unit was operational.

I felt wary about trying again after our failure but not yet ready for our cryonics journey to end. Although I was battle weary and scarred from losing my friends, the idea of caring for another frozen body was tempting. I agreed and, once again, jumped into the chasm of the unknown.

When I flew out to meet the brothers and stay at their apartment, I saw they were a curious study in opposites. Terry was effete, with long flowing hair, and worked as a nurse. Dennis was muscular and taught at a karate school. Terry was strong-willed and had initiated their mom's freezing, while Dennis was soft-spoken and often placated his brother. They were identical in one aspect: They dearly loved their mother.

They were engrossed with cryonics, poring through the brochures and making plans to form their own group. Surprisingly, the freezing arrangements went smoothly considering that we were in the middle of the Midwest. I had never been to Iowa, but I always assumed that a place like Des Moines would not receive me or cryonics very well. However, I was happily wrong. Within a few days, I found a cooperating doctor and mortuary.

A week after I arrived, death came in the night for Mildred Harrington. As I submerged her body in ice, Terry closely monitored the procedure to make sure every strand of hair was frozen properly in place. I called Professor Ettinger and Joseph with the unhappy news, and they hopped on planes. The perfusion went smoothly, and the brothers quickly transitioned from heartache to showmanship. The local newscast loved the story of Mildred's suspension, and the Harrington brothers loved the attention. Whenever there was a camera in a crowd, Terry found it.

Among the clamor of microphones and interviews, Joseph Klockgether commented, “These Harrington brothers are media hounds. I don't typically see folks acting like this, even in LA. I'm sure they're grieving, but it seems they care more about publicity than the perfusion.”

I waved off Joseph's concerns and smiled. Their mother had been sick for a long time, and I knew everyone grieved differently. I'll admit it was amusing to see Terry sporting a comb and mirror in his back pocket and primping his long hair before stepping into the limelight. He picked out his clothes each morning with such care, trying on several outfits and debating the perfect balance between flamboyance and mourning.

Joseph flew back to Los Angeles to transport Mildred to his mortuary, while I remained at Dennis's apartment for another week. The hospital where Terry worked was hosting a symposium titled “Death and the Dying Process” and invited me to speak about cryonics. Standing at the podium, I felt trepidation and sweaty palms and yet an equal measure of amazement at the paths of life. Here I was, with barely a high-school education, lecturing nearly one hundred physicians about cryonics.

When Terry and Dennis completed the donation paperwork and the seminar was over, I said good-bye to the brothers, wished them well, and returned to LA to commence my weekly ritual of replacing Mildred's dry ice in the vault.

Week after week, Frank Farrell and I accomplished the dangerous, Herculean task of replacing the dry ice. The underground vault had little if any ventilation, and every week we needed to replenish at least three hundred pounds of dry ice, which sublimes into carbon dioxide gas. We pumped out the foot of water that had accumulated during the week on the vault floor. Frank flashed the light in the vault and illuminated the remaining inch of icky, unpumped water with hundreds of floating spider carcasses swirling around Mildred's container.

I knew the dangers; any mistake would be deadly. A single breath of the carbon dioxide would have rendered me unconscious, and Frank would be unable to immediately assist or lift me out of the vault before I asphyxiated. Half-joking, I once told Frank that if I did stumble, he should allow me to stay, as I lay among my friends.

Typically, I went down the ladder into the vault at the cemetery while Frank assisted topside. Darkness shrouded the damp walls and farther recesses of the vault, but I knew crawling spiders were there. After taking several quick breaths, I swallowed my fright, inhaled deeply, rushed down the ladder, and removed the lid of the temporary storage container. Then I scurried back up the ladder, gasping for air. That first trip was merely the prelude to the real work.

I lugged forty pounds of dry ice, cut into four two-inch-thick slices wrapped in thick paper, onto my shoulder. Balancing them, I hurried down to the floor, ripped off the paper, and placed the dry ice into the container. I then scurried up the ladder toward daylight and gasped for air. For eight trips up and down, I repeated that procedure, worried that each trip would be my last. I needed thick gloves to avoid cold burns, but they made it difficult to grip the ladder rungs, making a slip more likely. If I fell, I knew I'd instinctually inhale and then die. When I climbed out of the hole after the final trip, I dropped onto my back on the cemetery grass, regaining my breath, relieved we were done for another week. I never told my wife or my kids about this part of my job for fear that they would insist I quit.

After twenty weeks of that adrenaline-filled terror, we added an emergency scuba rig at the bottom. The spooky vault still resembled a medieval dungeon until we rigged up electric lights and a blower to disperse the suffocating gas. Then our job was more relaxed and I needn't fear for my life each week.

After Mildred had been in temporary storage for two years, the brothers asked if they could hold a two-hour memorial service and a viewing of their mom. This intriguing request provided several challenges, and I was excited to carry out their wishes. I consulted with Joseph, and we designed a special casket with a liquid-nitrogen spray device connected to a thermostat and a spray valve to keep Mildred at low temperature during the service. I knew Mildred was in no danger of thawing during the hours of the memorial, but we didn't want to needlessly worry her sons. The total cost of the service and this special casket was five thousand dollars. The family eagerly set a date.

We purchased an inexpensive casket and tore out the padding, then bought polyurethane insulation for the bottom and sides. Once mixed, these two chemicals, a polyol and an isocyanate, would harden within three minutes and needed to be poured immediately. Those liquids were extremely toxic; I didn't want them around my kids or to let my wife know I was risking my life once again, so I went to the home of a very tolerant friend.

Standing in Mark's garage, I picked up one of the chemical bottles, the isocyanate, emblazoned with several warnings and a skull and crossbones. The liquids emitted a horrible-smelling toxic gas that could kill a person with prolonged exposure. I was amazed at all the life-threatening adventures I'd accumulated with cryonics—the cloak-and-dagger maneuvering with off-kilter clients, the weekly descent into the claustrophobic vault filled with suffocating carbon dioxide, and now exposing myself to what I presumed was cyanide gas. I looked down at the casket and ruefully told myself that if this task poisoned me, then at least I could fall into my final resting place.

I genuflected in my mind and began pouring the chemicals; I soon felt dizzy and nauseated, so we opened the garage door and pulled the casket out into the alleyway to allow the fumes to escape. We finished after an hour and pulled the casket back into the garage; we went into the house and cleaned up. Ten minutes later I heard banging on the front door. Mark was still scrubbing the persistent smell off his hands, so I opened his door and was confronted by four policemen, hands on their holsters. I obeyed their orders and put up my hands. Mark and I exchanged questioning glances as we got frisked; I hated that feeling of unwelcome hands roving all over my body.

After the search was over, an officer asked, “All right, who's in that coffin you got there in your garage?”

I heaved a sigh of relief and replied, “Come on. We'll show you.” They followed us into the garage, and I showed them the empty casket. The almond smell of the noxious gas was still clinging to the polyurethane, and the cops were anxious to return to the alley. I explained that we were working on an experiment and apologized. It never dawned on us what the neighbors might think. We had an uneasy laugh and said good-bye to the police.

Finally the day for the memorial arrived. Santa Ana winds blew in hot temperatures, and I was glad we had taken the extra precaution of the liquid-nitrogen casket. The Harrington brothers managed to amuse me again; Terry was dressed all in white and Dennis all in black. Terry worked diligently on his mother's makeup. I allowed him fifteen-minute intervals to work his magic before closing the lid and turning on the liquid-nitrogen spray. Mildred stayed cold—from her black wig and false eyelashes down to the hem of her embroidered white gown. She had an aura of the fairy-tale princess Sleeping Beauty.

Ten guests attended the viewing. The memorial proceeded just as any other funeral service. It didn't seem to bother anyone that she had been dead for two years—their reaction gave me hope that cryonics would find wider acceptance. Her relatives lingered at the open casket, commenting about how wonderful she looked and that it was such a blessing to see her again. I was content to stand at the back of the chapel in Joseph's mortuary, feeling gratified that I was able to make this day happen.

I overheard a buxom aunt decked out in pink chiffon and swishing a lacy fan say, “Oh, Terry, she's purty as a picture. Your momma was always such a stylish woman. You've done her proud.”

One gentleman, obviously a farmer from his tanned, leathery skin and roughened hands, came up to me and said, “You're in charge here right? I remember you from Iowa.”

I shook his offered hand and nodded.

“This is some amazing technology you got here. Mildred looks like she closed her eyes forever just an hour ago. What a comfort this must be to the boys, since their momma was such an amazing woman. This all is different from what I'm used to, to be sure. But those brothers are different too. The service suits them.”

Dennis and Terry approached me after the memorial, and Dennis gave me a bear hug that cracked my back and lasted several seconds beyond comfortable. He said, “I thank you. This memorial was worth every penny.”

I pushed against his muscled chest, released myself from his strong arms, and responded, “I'm glad it was a comfort. Perhaps you've started a new tradition.”

Terry's eyes grew wide as though he'd just had a revelation. “Why, yes! I've always wanted to be a trendsetter. Perhaps I've found my calling.”