Freezing People is (Not) Easy (14 page)

“Of course,” she answered, placing her hand on my cheek.

“I want you to skip school tomorrow.”

She leaned back, giving me a skeptical look. “Skip school?” she asked, surprised that would be an option, let alone a favor. “You'd let me skip school?”

I smiled. “This is something super special for a very special little girl. She doesn't have too many chances for fun times. So can you help me make sure she has lots of fun tomorrow?”

Nodding, Susan realized this was important grown-up business.

“We're going to Disneyland tomorrow.”

Thrilled, she jumped up and spun around and round. “Wow, best favor ever!”

The drive to Disneyland was enchanting. Genevieve and her mom never stopped talking. She pressed her face against the car window and squealed “
Maman, Maman
!
” when she first glimpsed the Sleeping Beauty Castle from the freeway. It was tough for me to drive; I kept wanting to look in the rearview mirror and watch her excitement grow as she spoke faster and faster. When we arrived we picked up a wheelchair and a special pass for Genevieve's condition.

We went straight to It's a Small World, my personal favorite, and since it's a boat ride, I knew it wouldn't be too taxing on Genevieve. She loved it so much she insisted we go around three times, pointing out the Eiffel Tower each time. I realized something deeply poignant while sharing the Small World ride with her. Whether American, Canadian, French, or Japanese, children all over the world have the same innocence and bestow dreams and possibility on a weary world. Just as cryonics brings hope to an individual, children—the next generation—provide hope for all humanity.

For the next couple of hours, we strolled through Fantasyland, a medieval fair with gentle rides. Genevieve seemed free of her life-and-death drama. When we came to the teacups, she asked her mom to ride with her. Before that, Susan had accompanied her on the rides. Her mom flashed me a funny look as she boarded. I think the ride made her a little nervous. Wrapped in the blanket, Genevieve appeared as small as Alice after she drank from the bottle in Wonderland. As the teacups spun around, I watched the blurry girl gripping the teacup rim; a few stray hairs blew wildly. When the ride ended, I scooped her up and placed her back in the wheelchair. She was breathless but had excited eyes and rosy cheeks.

“Mr. Robert,” Pierrette said. “Genevieve wants me to ask you a question.”

“Please, go right ahead and ask.”

“Genevieve wants to know if you would learn French so that she can talk with you.”

I knelt down and looked into those beautiful brown eyes and said, “Genevieve, I will learn French just for you.”

As her mother translated, Genevieve enchanted me with a big precious smile, the only smile I ever saw on her face during the time I knew her. When her mom told me that was also the first smile she had seen since Genevieve had become ill, I had an idea. Genevieve needed to meet two individuals who had no shortage of smiles—Mickey and Donald.

I slipped away while the children rode the charming horses on the King Arthur Carrousel. I went on a hunt for someone who could send Mickey and Donald our way. I was eventually guided toward the park director, a young lady with black hair, a lovely smile, and compassionate eyes, reminding me of Snow White.

I explained Genevieve's situation, and she grabbed my hand. “Anything Genevieve wants to see is hers for the asking.”

“Could Mickey and Donald sort of bump into us?”

Patting me on the back, she called on her walkie-talkie; in five minutes everything was prepared.

She flashed a smile and leaned in close, as if delivering a top-secret mission. “Stroll over to the Casey Jones train ride close to the water fountain at noon. Mickey and Donald will run up to you like you're long-lost brothers.”

A fire lit inside me. Genevieve was going to be thrilled!

I didn't say anything to Pierrette or my Susan. I just meandered our group over to the train station at eleven forty-five.

Genevieve had asked her mom twice that morning about Mickey and Donald. It was one minute before noon, and my heart was racing. Genevieve looked at me, about to ask something, when the magic happened. Genevieve's face lit up; she bounced in her wheelchair, waving and yelling in French.

Of course I knew exactly what was happening but pretended I didn't see anything. She gestured wildly at our approaching guests. “Monsieur Robert, look! Look!”

When I turned around, Donald tackled me, capturing me in a big hug as I accidentally stepped on his big duck feet. Mickey joined him about two seconds later. It was perfect; my smile was as wide and permanent as Mickey's. Genevieve was so excited she was close to tears. I settled my two long-lost buddies down and introduced them to the girls. My daughter had figured out the charade, but she played along flawlessly.

We settled down on a grassy knoll with a bench far from the crowds. Susan and I stepped away, allowing Genevieve and her mom to enjoy those two characters, so adept at providing a magical spark to a child's life. As Genevieve's mom interpreted what the Disney characters were saying, the girl's imagination took her far away from the hospitals, doctors, and needles. I was happy that Pierrette had allowed me to bring along a movie camera to capture it all on film. I knew that all too soon, the footage of this extraordinary day would be precious to Genevieve's family. After visiting for about thirty minutes, Donald and Mickey indicated it was time to go. Genevieve hugged them for a long moment, scrunching up her face, trying not to cry. The characters shook my hand as they went off, continuing the pretense. However, I was so grateful for Genevieve's happiness and for their gentle compassion that they really were now my best buddies. Genevieve chirped happily with her mom, reliving the experience and rides.

I adopted her in my heart in that moment. I could not let her or her family down. I swore to myself that she would somehow be placed in cryonic suspension, even if I had to do it all myself. I closed my eyes, pained by all the heartache that fate had brought to this beloved, gentle girl. I could deny her nothing.

As I drove back to the hospital that afternoon, with the fading sun streaming through my side window, I knew that day would live in my memory forever, pristine and golden. I looked back and saw Genevieve in her mother's arms, soft mews coming from her as she slept.

When I visited her in the hospital several days later, she still chatted excitedly about her time at Disneyland, but she looked quite pale and lethargic. I felt the stale hospital air and ghostly white walls and cabinets close around her; the setting was so different from the vibrant colors and squealing voices surrounding her just a few days earlier.

Guy was back, and Pierrette had returned to Canada. Whispering with a hitch in his voice, he told me he had just met with the doctors and decided not to put her on dialysis when her remaining kidney failed. The cancer had returned from its brief remission, and Guy reasoned that within a week she would experience severe pain; it would soon become unbearable and ultimately dialysis would be pointless. The alternative was uremic poisoning; Genevieve would simply go to sleep.

The next three weeks were depressing beyond description. This sweet angel was slipping away, and we could do nothing except comfort her and watch her fade. It was so unfair that I'd outlive that little girl. I just couldn't stop thinking about it.
Is she scared? She doesn't act scared, but how can she not be? Does she truly realize everything this cancer is taking from her—her first dance with a boy, getting to grow up, seeing the actual Eiffel Tower?

I hoped that cryonics would give her those opportunities—all those experiences would still be hers, just delayed for a little while. If she must go to sleep and be placed in those cold liquids, then please let her wake up later. Heaven can wait—it'll still be there for her after she's had a long, full life.

At night I would go home exhausted and emotionally spent. All I could do was gather my own children into my arms, kiss their hair, and give long hugs until they pulled away.

The doctors told us Genevieve had been in total kidney failure for nine or ten days. The longest they had seen a person survive in that condition was eight days. She had a remarkably strong will to live. By this time Guy had become reclusive, speaking only to Genevieve.

On the tenth day, she was weak and pale, but her eyes were alert as she talked with her dad. On the eleventh day she began to dim rapidly. The end came on the twelfth day. She was holding her daddy's hand when she asked him to hold her. Guy climbed onto the bed and cradled her in his arms. I had just arrived, and as I walked into the room, I stopped and quietly backed out. I couldn't interrupt this moment. I watched through the small window in the door as this gentle father softly rocked his little girl back and forth and stroked her sweet face.

After about twenty minutes, he lay her back down, and I quietly reentered the room. Guy turned to me and said, “Please get a doctor; I believe she has just passed away.” He ran his large hand over her small face, closing her eyes.

Within two minutes Genevieve de la Poterie was pronounced legally dead. As we had asked, the nurses immediately covered her tiny body with ice and started the cardiac heart massage machine. Guy trudged down the hallway to a bank of pay phones. Pierrette needed to know.

Genevieve was transported to Joseph Klockgether's mortuary, where we performed an excellent perfusion. We then placed her on dry ice in temporary storage until I could transfer her to a capsule. In her favorite dress and with her lips swollen from the perfusion, she didn't look dead to me, only asleep . . . for now. The perfusion was filmed by a professional cameraman and later used in a documentary.

With my work completed and nothing left to do except keep her forever cold, the full weight of Genevieve's death now came upon me. She had traveled to Hamlet's undiscovered country, the place from which no one had returned—yet. I bowed my head and pressed my face against my fist, covering my eyes and nose. Trying not to make a sound, I gritted my teeth and felt the tightness in my throat. I had to be strong and steel myself against death; I had seen it many times before, but this one was the hardest and ripped at my heart. Today, as I write this, Wilms disease is no longer fatal. Within my own lifetime, medicine has found a cure for what killed that little girl.

My mind had to shift from the horrendous drama of watching Genevieve die to the physical labor of caring for her. Her parents' work was done; they had loved her and cared for her completely. Now it was my turn. Genevieve remained in the temporary storage of a container filled with dry ice alongside Mildred for about a year.

Our fledgling cryonics facility was limping along but slowly gaining strength, and I was determined to make it succeed. Feeling confident about the CSC trajectory, I went back to educating the general public about cryonics. Genevieve and our other frozen heroes were counting on me.

Chapter 10

The East Coast Cryotorium

Cryonic societies were sprouting up in several cities,
mostly on the East and West Coasts. After we had frozen the first man, several other groups, including the Cryonics Society of New York, had followed our lead and frozen some patients as well. I would learn over time that these cryonics societies experienced many of the same problems we did. In March 1971 I received a call from Pauline Mandell, who lived in the Bronx in New York. Her son, Steven, had died of cancer in his early twenties and had been in cryonic suspension at CSNY since 1968. She pleaded with me to come to New York to discuss moving her son to California for long-term storage. Like most other patients held by CSNY, her son's capsule was on the verge of being evicted from Mount Washington Cemetery. She was battling Curtis Henderson, president of CSNY, and their dealings had turned ugly.

Since I was traveling to Boston to visit my ailing mother, I decided to make the side trip to see Pauline, arriving on a beautiful spring day. Since New York City seems to prefer to play at the extremes of temperature, this was one of the few visits when I actually enjoyed the weather. As I emerged from the plane, I saw Pauline waiting on the tarmac, wearing a tan leather jacket and brown jeans like she promised.

She was in her late thirties with a pretty and welcoming face, but her troubles showed in her tired eyes. She pulled out of our hug and began wringing her hands, saying, “Thank you so much for coming. Getting frozen was my son's dying wish. I've tried, but I'm at my wits' end with Mr. Henderson. He made all kinds of assurances and now we're in a big mess. The management of the cemetery where the capsules are stored wants them out. They've threatened to block delivery of liquid nitrogen if they aren't removed immediately. Mr. Henderson has nowhere to put them. Please, for the sake of my only son, help me fix this.”

A lump in my throat made it difficult to speak, so I just patted her shoulder. Her son had been in college with his entire life ahead of him. He deserved a chance.

I noticed a muscular, balding man beside her in his mid-forties, with a tough chiseled face and squinty eyes. She introduced him as Nick ­DeBlasio and explained that his wife, Ann, was in cryonic suspension and that he was also sparring with Curtis Henderson at CSNY. Nick told me he was a New York City policeman and didn't take any shit from anyone—I believed him.

Nick claimed Curtis had treated him rudely during a discussion about his wife's safety. Apparently things turned ugly when Nick said he found a cigarette butt floating in the liquid nitrogen of his wife's capsule that was the same brand Curtis smoked. I found this hard to believe, but I wasn't going to argue with a cop.

“I ought to sue them or send some of my buddies from the force. They can't go around disrespecting folks, especially my lovely, amazing wife.”

I had always known Curtis and the entire CSNY crew to be honest people, and I could not understand all this animosity. I was unprepared to deal with two frozen patients, but I soon learned that Nick didn't want to transfer his wife to California. He wanted his own facility—one in which he alone could take care of his wife and no one else could have access.

“Nick, it took me two years to find a cemetery in California that allowed frozen bodies to be stored on their grounds,” I said. “I have no idea how difficult it will be to duplicate a vault for cryonic storage in New York. You know that the cemetery used by CSNY is trying to kick them out.”

Nick begged me to try. “I cannot lose my wife; she was my soul mate, the song of my heart, the love of my life.”

I realized then that he needed cryonics because he had always used his strength or his strength of will to control situations. Cryonics was a way for him to continue that control even in the face of death. No one and nothing was going to beat him.

“I need to visit my mother, so while I'm gone, choose three possible cemeteries. I'll come back in one week and stay five days.” I patted him on the shoulder. “I'll do what I can.”

Nick agreed.
Who knows? We might just get lucky.
I was experienced working with cemeteries; at least I could get him pointed in the right direction.

The next week I returned to New York, and Nick handed me a list of three local cemeteries. I sat down at his desk and called his first choice, Mount Holiness Memorial Park in Butler, New Jersey, close to his New York police beat. I explained that I was interested in purchasing land at their cemetery. In less than a minute, John Lewis, the park manager was on the phone. After conjuring up several presentations, I decided to just pitch the truth.

“I represent CSC, a medical research foundation in California conducting experiments in low-temperature biology, and we wish to construct an underground vault to store frozen human remains.” I was glad my voice projected some confidence that I certainly did not feel.

“Do you have any other such facilities?” he asked.

I told him about our vault in Chatsworth and then waited through a long pause, not knowing what to expect. Nick swatted me, wanting to know details, and I waved him off. He harrumphed and paced the floor. I was getting irritated with his distracting me; if preparations were as complicated here as in California, he'd be exasperating to handle.

Finally the manager answered, “I hope we can help you. Why don't you come, and we'll see if we can find you a spot.”

I was stunned at the open invitation by the first cemetery we called—it was unreal! I asked Nick when he'd like to go.

He jumped off the ground, “Now! Now! Now!” He grabbed his car keys and barreled for the door.

On our drive to Butler, we passed rolling green hills and reveled in the smell of recent rain—so different from the LA sprawl—and it made me nostalgic for my New England childhood. The verdant cemetery was as lush as the surrounding countryside, and the grounds were as manicured as I had ever seen.

I introduced Nick to John Lewis as my East Coast cryonics director who would oversee the facility's operation. John questioned us about the frequency of the liquid nitrogen servicing and how long it took to offload the delivery truck. I responded about once a month and less than half an hour to refill the capsule. Those answers seemed acceptable to him.

He then took us on a tour of the grounds. Nick favored a location close to the entrance, since it would be accessible for the liquid nitrogen truck. We asked to buy that parcel, and I wrote a check from my personal account for five thousand dollars, hoping it wouldn't clear until I called Elaine and she got funds into the bank. We shook hands and said good-bye. I was in shock. This deal had been so easy compared with the grueling rejection from numerous cemeteries I had encountered in California. This good omen was a promising start for Nick's vault.

Nick and I wanted to leave everything at the cemetery under CSC ownership. If all went smoothly for a few months, I would turn the deed and facility over to him and he'd reimburse my expenses.

I told Nick that after we had built our California vault, I found a company with facilities all over the country that installed prefabricated units for a reasonable price. The next morning I called the manufacturer, and we decided on a ten-by-fifteen-foot structure. I called John at the cemetery and arranged to have the ground dug out to accommodate our vault. Nick slapped my back, giddy at our good luck.

Two days later we were at the cemetery, soaking in the crisp spring air. Life—that is, birds and squirrels—flitted all around us. Unlike many other people, I never felt forlorn at cemeteries. Instead I had the dual emotions of hope in the future and disappointment that so many people had gone needlessly into the ground.

At eleven forty-five, an eighteen-wheel truck arrived hauling an enormous double concrete block and a crane. We waved the driver to the right spot, and he hopped out of his cab. Nick and I sat on a stone bench, enthralled by the ensuing well-choreographed performance.

Three burly men built the huge vault in three stages, starting with a bottom slab. Once the crane had that in place, the upper perimeter was coated with a six-inch-thick rubbery, tar-like substance. This goo served as a gasket for the second concrete piece, which formed the sides. When that in turn was lowered, a second tarry gasket was applied to its upper edge in preparation for the top section. Throughout the entire procedure, Nick and I exchanged amazed glances. Within thirty minutes, the vault was in the ground. Since the Chatsworth vault had required two weeks for the main construction, I had hoped this vault would be finished by the weekend—not by lunchtime!

Within forty-five minutes the truck was returning to its home base. Already the groundskeepers were covering the installation with dirt and sod. It was like some fantastic conjuring trick performed on television.

As we left our new East Coast cryonic storage facility, I suggested we meet with Pauline Mandell for an early dinner. Nick took us to a restaurant with the best Chinese cuisine I'd ever had. During the meal I had a brilliant idea that would surely thrill both Pauline and Nick.

“Nick, you could place Pauline's son in the vault with your wife. We could remove Steven from his leaky, rickety capsule and double them up in the new Minnesota Valley Engineering (MVE) unit. There's plenty of space, and it would lower your expenses significantly.”

Neither made a sound. They stared at me like I had asked to dig up Stalin and place him in Ann DeBlasio's capsule.

Although it was clear that Nick didn't want any man near his wife, I still tried to convince him. “Nick, you may not think much of it now, but as time goes by, expenses mount; another person can make all the difference.”

Pauline sat there frozen with her mouth open, so Nick spoke. “No way that'll ever work. After everything I've been through with those . . . jokers at CSNY, I don't want any complications. That vault is for my wife only. I wouldn't let anyone share it in a million years.”

Pauline shook out of her stupor and stood up, her palms supported on the table, “No! I've already had all the problems I can handle. I love my son with all my heart, but I just can't do this anymore.”

Pauline was almost shouting, and I could feel the stares from the patrons and the ladies with the dim sum carts. I abandoned my plan. “Of course Pauline; it was just an idea. Silly, really; everything's fine.”

She took a deep breath and sat down, but her fluttering hands sent the hot green tea airborne. It spilled across the table, and we ended our dinner quickly after that, my fortune cookie unopened.

I was scheduled to leave the next morning for my return to California, so I needed to think fast. After everything I'd seen of Pauline's behavior, should I commit to flying Steven Mandell's fifteen-hundred-pound capsule to California and add it to my long list of nonpaying suspensions?

I tried talking with Pauline, but she just couldn't focus, preferring instead to shuffle through the papers on her desk or wring her hands while she stared at Steven's photos. I couldn't judge her harshly though. She was generally a nice and professional woman, but her son's death was just far too traumatic.

That evening I stayed at Pauline's home and slept on the problem. By sunrise I was certain she was no longer able to deal rationally with her son's suspension.

However, I just couldn't say no.

If Steven's capsule was operating okay, I could place Mildred and Genevieve in it. Before I could do that, though, I needed her full authorization. I told Pauline that if she donated Steven's body and the capsule to the CSC and paid for transport to California, I would continue his suspension. I carefully explained that my eventual goal was to place all patients, including Steven, in the thirty-person capsule we had purchased. Pauline said she would have to end her son's suspension otherwise, so I had her blessing. I also asked that she make a monthly donation to CSC of one hundred dollars for liquid nitrogen replacement.

Pauline and I needed to find a carpenter to make the special heavy-duty shipping crate for Steven's flight. I never mentioned to the airline that Steven was inside. When the capsule arrived at the Los Angeles airport, I picked it up with a rented truck and brought it directly to the heavy-equipment yard at the Chatsworth cemetery. I did not place it in the vault because I needed easy access to assess its performance.

A year later I returned to New Jersey and was astounded by the transformation of Nick's vault. It had wall paneling, drapes, and fragrant white roses and was painted ivory and robin's egg blue. He'd even brought in a chair so that he could visit comfortably with his wife, and he had asked a monsignor to bless the vault. During a delightful three-course Italian meal at Nick's home that night, he paid me and I transferred ownership of the vault to him.

I lost contact with Pauline. Once her son was in California, she never inquired about him other than a single letter wishing us well. I think for her own survival she needed to walk away from Steven's suspension and the hell she had endured trying to honor his wishes.

Nick took meticulous care of his wife's capsule over the next several years. I always marveled at Nick's duality—he was gruff and bullying but also loving and gentle. He eventually did add another person to Ann's capsule; a woman whom the CSC froze and shipped to him to store and share expenses. In our monthly newsletter I proclaimed that our latest patient was shipped to “our East Coast facility”—a proclamation that I later took a lot of grief over.

Finally bad luck caught up with Nick. The monthly removal of the capsule lid for liquid nitrogen replacement caused an ice layer to form around the lid seat. The ice made it harder and harder to dislodge this top portion. Each time Nick needed to add liquid nitrogen, it was a battle. He began prying the lid off and then used a hammer to bang it off. Finally the capsule developed a microscopic vacuum leak. A capsule with a vacuum leak can no longer function. The liquid nitrogen acted like water in a scalding sauté pan and quickly evaporated.