Freezing People is (Not) Easy (13 page)

Chapter 9

Second Chances

“My daughter has cancer
and doesn't have long to live. Can you help?”

That was my first conversation with Guy de la Poterie in July 1971. He was calling from Montreal, Canada, and spoke with a thick French accent. “It's a Wilms tumor. She has already lost one kidney and the other one is failing,” he went on to explain. “Her doctors have given up and are simply waiting for her to die.”

“
Genevieve's only seven years old.
”

Guy said his family had lost all hope until he saw a news story on TV about cryonics and realized that might be his daughter's only chance. In the news story, a truck signed with
Cryonics Society of Michigan
had led Guy to Professor Robert Ettinger and then to the Cryonics Society of California.

He wanted Genevieve frozen and suspended when she passed on. I hesitated. “I've never dealt with a hospital outside the United States and have no idea how they'd react. I'd also need the cooperation of a local mortuary.”

After hanging up the phone, I stared at the receiver for a long time. This little girl had her entire life ahead—could still have an entire life. If cryonics worked like it should, then someday Genevieve could go to college, perhaps get married and have children of her own. She would die—a clinical death, certainly—but she might still wake up and grow up. This little girl could have a future; I felt intoxicated, overwhelmed. This idea of hope, of possibility, of unscripted futures brought me back to that moment at the beach when I first read Professor Ettinger's book.

I offered to fly to Montreal with Joseph Klockgether and see what arrangements could be made. I told Guy that if he paid the travel expenses, CSC wouldn't charge for our time to come to Montreal. He reserved a hotel room for us and sent two plane tickets. We flew to Canada the next day.

When we arrived in Montreal, Guy stood at the airport gate. He was strikingly trim and good-looking. What struck me most was his gentle and kind eyes, although tired and bloodshot, eloquent reminders of the battle this father had waged. I liked him immediately. Montreal was cool, even in July; the air held a crispness and vitality that was lacking in the lazy Southern California summers. He took us to a comfortable French bistro, filled with the intoxicating aromas of baking baguettes and duck confit, where we settled in for three hours. Since I was to participate in something so personal, I was glad for the opportunity to know him better. Guy knew little about cryonics, and unlike most other people I'd helped, he hadn't been part of the CSC. Despite his inner turmoil, he was able to discuss the logistics objectively.

“We want to help, but you need to fully understand the obstacles. The normal price for performing a perfusion and freezing is ten thousand dollars. That doesn't include the capsule, the monthly maintenance, and liquid-nitrogen replacement fees. We also need investment funds for perpetual care when you and I are no longer here.”

He looked as though I had just slapped him. Obviously he hadn't considered the cost. Guy bit his lip and sat there for a long moment holding his coffee cup, elbows planted on the table. “I don't have that kind of money,” he finally said, a slight trill in his voice. “I will absolutely find it though. I'll call my parents and my wife's relatives. We'll be good for at least the initial ten thousand dollars.”

Wanting to lessen the expenses, I told him Genevieve could double up in another capsule, which would eliminate the monthly fees for liquid nitrogen. This suggestion made him a little squeamish, but he understood. In the meantime, he would need to pay for the dry ice to keep her in temporary suspension.

Piling on the issues, I added, “We also need the assistance of Genevieve's hospital and the local mortuary. We have no idea how these two institutions will react.”

“Let me tell you about Genevieve,” he said. Absentmindedly, Guy pushed his fork through his mashed potatoes and spoke slowly, as though struggling to find the words to properly describe his beloved daughter, to illustrate that she was extraordinary and yet still a normal little girl.

“She's my youngest. I have two other daughters, whom Genevieve idolizes. She follows them everywhere they go, which is okay with them . . . most of the time. She can't hold still for one minute. She's like a downed high-voltage line, whipping around in fifteen different directions at once. And she likes to tell funny little stories. It's a rare day when she doesn't make us all smile at least once. But so much changed, so much ended for all of us when she got sick.”

After we finally said good-bye, I found the hotel and fell onto the bed, recounting my impressions of Guy de la Poterie. No money and no funds, but filled with love. I felt like I was jumping again into the abyss, but I knew this was my duty. No one else would—or could—help them. I heard a light patter of rain against the window, which brought my focus back to the present. I called the hospital and arranged to talk to the director, Mrs. Lemay, the following morning. My last thought before I dozed off was the hope that a woman might be more compassionate than a man.

The next morning, sunlight streamed in through the translucent hotel curtains. Remembering my important mission, I jumped out of bed, flipped the
Do Not Disturb
sign on the door, and rehearsed during a long shower. My presentation was professional and compelling—as long as I had the right audience. However, I was anxious, since I liked Guy and felt connected to his family. I steeled myself and walked to her office.

I explained the cryonics procedure to the director, told her of our past successes, and reiterated that Genevieve's parents strongly desired the suspension. She asked few questions during my ten-minute talk. When finished I awaited her response, twisting my briefcase strap around my hands and trying to gauge her reaction.

Finally she spoke. “The hospital has no policy regarding the preparation of patients for cryonic suspension, and we are strictly regulated by the government. The hospital cannot be involved in cryonics with regards to the girl's case in any way.” Her voice sounded clipped and scripted, with a tinge of underlying compassion. Her response left no room to maneuver. “We are discharging her tomorrow, since the doctors can do nothing more. We expect she will live about six more weeks, and her family should simply enjoy every minute the child has left.”

Letting out a long sigh, I thanked her for her time and left.

Joseph Klockgether later told me that he had received similar responses from the two mortuaries he contacted. It appeared there was nothing else we could do in Canada.

That evening, we stood in the foyer of the de la Poterie home. Guy and his wife, Pierrette, knew I had bad news the instant they saw my face. They remained silent, disappointed but unsurprised. Pierrette turned away, and Guy dug his hands deep into his pockets, as though resisting the temptation to punch a wall. Feeling profoundly helpless, I just stood there, glancing at the baby pictures filling the room and contemplating other possibilities—other hospitals in Quebec or Ottawa. Several minutes passed before Guy sank into his sofa and looked toward me.

Guy spoke a few sentences in French until he remembered his audience and began again. “Bob, Joe, I'd never heard of a Wilms tumor until the doctor told me that it would kill my daughter. The doctor invited us into his office and told us Genevieve had about a month to live.” Guy reached for Pierrette's hand and squeezed it tight. “Simple as that. ‘Your daughter has a month.' As if it was as inconsequential as the weather. I suppose to him she was.”

Joseph and I said our good-byes and flew home, feeling we couldn't help Genevieve. The problems seemed insurmountable, but five days later Guy surprised me. He was in California, and Genevieve had been accepted into the Children's Hospital in Hollywood. She would fly into Los Angeles with her mother the next day. I was elated at this new opportunity for Genevieve. The situation reminded me of an old saying I had long treasured: “Whether you think you can or you cannot, you are absolutely right.”

The next evening at the hospital, I met this little girl I had heard so much about. She was charming, with cropped chocolate-colored hair and big, doe-brown eyes that betrayed her fear and sadness. Though she looked gaunt and tired from the long flight, her apple cheeks looked pink, and she sat up in her hospital bed flanked by her dolls and stuffed animals. Apparently her condition had taken a positive turn.

I requested a meeting with the hospital director the following morning, and to my surprise my call was transferred to him immediately. I didn't have my presentation prepared in that instant but quickly gained my bearings and jumped into the speech I had given in Canada. I wished I could meet with the director in person though; he'd be able to read my character, see my passion and integrity, and feel more comfortable with this girl's unorthodox path. I had to convince him—Genevieve and her parents needed me to succeed.

I explained that I was president of the Cryonics Society of California and that we intended to accept Genevieve as a medical donor, which was her father's wish. Therefore, we needed to pack her body in ice and administer a shot of heparin immediately upon clinical death.

After a brief pause the director asked, “You're the organization that freezes people, right?”

My stomach jumped. I had no choice but to be honest. “Well, I suppose you could put it that way.”

He told me to hold for a moment . . . about twenty minutes clicked by in total silence.

“I'm sorry that took so long.” The director stopped to clear his throat. “I just spoke with the hospital supervisor. She'll provide you with anything you need and cooperate in every way possible.”

My heart quickened and I bounced in the chair, nearly speechless with this change in fortune.

“Furthermore, if you have any problems or need anything else, just call me back.”

He gave me his personal pager number, and I thanked him countless times. What a difference from my experience in Montreal! I couldn't wait to tell Genevieve's family. God knew they needed some good news.

Still elated, I had to switch my mind back to the logistics, such as finding a place near the hospital where Genevieve's parents could stay. Their plan was for each of them to stay one week, rotating so that one of them would be home to care for their other two children. The cost for a small, one-bedroom apartment near the hospital was astronomical. On the third day of searching, we found one that they could reasonably afford.

The first week Guy stayed and his wife went home. I met with him almost every day. He was elated when I told him about the hospital's enthusiastic offer of cooperation.

He couldn't get the ten thousand dollars from his family, so I found myself accepting another cryonic suspension without being paid for it. But saying no to that beautiful child was simply not an option.

Each morning when I arrived at the hospital, I'd stand in the doorway of Genevieve's room, watching her play nurse to her dolls. After all her time in hospital beds, she knew the job description quite well. She pretended taking their temperature, withdrawing blood from the squishy doll arms with a tiny straw, and placing cold compresses on their little foreheads. The big nurses would constantly come in with big needles—needles for injecting something into the little girl or taking fluids out. Brave Genevieve scrunched up her face and steeled herself, but she never cried or jerked her arm, not even making a soft whimper. The nurses acted sweet but spoke in this high-pitched affected tone that adults often take with children.

Pierrette returned to relieve Guy the following week for the next rotation. I watched Pierrette tend to her daughter, endlessly smoothing her hair, arranging her blankets, and soothing her with stories, trying to fit a lifetime of mothering into the next few short days. I caught the names of Genevieve's brother and sister, but since they were speaking in French, I couldn't understand much else. As a mother, Pierrette was in agony, but with Genevieve she was always cheerful and smiling.

I was struck again by how strongly this family was committed to the hope that cryonics provided. These parents, by alternating weeks, were forfeiting precious days and memories so that Genevieve could be here in California—with me. One of them probably wouldn't be here at the end. Watching their sacrifice of a parent's most precious commodity—time—strengthened my resolve that their efforts would not be in vain.

After her brief reunion with Genevieve, Pierrette turned to me and said, “Mr. Robert, my daughter has a question.”

“Of course,” I replied. “I'm here and at her service.”

She looked pleased as her mom translated for me, though she didn't smile. Pierrette, combing her fingers through her daughter's hair, looked at me. “Genevieve wants to know if you know where Disneyland is.”

“Well, of course,” I responded, nodding. “That's where my old friends Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck live.”

After the translation, exhilaration filled her face until she glowed. The excited girl asked, “You really know them?”

“Oh, yeah. We go back a long way.” I turned to Pierrette and asked, “Is there any chance we can go?”

A smile dawned, erasing all traces of Pierrette's exhaustion. “The doctor agreed. He said it would be far preferable than sitting here all day.” Pierrette glanced at all the machines, one constantly drawing a red line on a strip chart. “I think she's strong enough if we use a wheelchair and carry her whenever possible.”

I asked Genevieve if we could go to Disneyland tomorrow to meet Mickey and Donald. I watched, delighted, as the little girl's eyes grew wider and wider. Sadly though, she did not smile, just clapped her hands.

When I arrived home that night, I wrapped my nine-year-old daughter, Susan, in a big hug. “Can you do a big favor for daddy?” I asked.