Freezing People is (Not) Easy (7 page)

From that initial meeting, we forged a lifelong friendship that continued to his
clinical
death in 2011. He was a university physics and astronomy professor. My stepfather had cared nothing about astronomy and had scolded me for my interest. This antithesis of Big John was now the role model of my life; he understood and encouraged every goal I set. The “father of cryonics” became my second father. And that really was our relationship throughout the forty-five years I knew him. This scientist never considered me inadequate or found anything wanting in me. I brought him my successes and my failures, and he helped me with them all.

During that visit to CSC, Professor Ettinger and I went together on a talk show with Joe Pyne. The man had a reputation for being rude and confrontational, and I felt nervous and unprepared.

Pyne stayed true to style and opened with a bang. He looked at me and said, “Mr. Nelson, I want you to explain who gives you the right? By whose authority do you think you can go around freezing people?”

Wide-eyed, I sat on the couch, flustered and flummoxed, and tried to compose something coherent.

Professor Ettinger leaned forward and intervened. “What credentials are required for anyone to freeze people, including me? What credentials are needed for extended life?”

Gratitude, relief, and respect flooded over me. Taken aback by Ettinger's measured response, Pyne then settled into a more cordial interview.

One evening during Ettinger's visit, we met with some medical professionals. A few were supportive but most were opposed, and we debated with one particular doctor at length. Finally, he said, exasperated, “You just can't change the world.”

Professor Ettinger replied, “The hell I can't. I already have.”

I turned to look at him, this man I had idolized, and realized he was right. A simple book, if it contains a radical and logical thesis, can change the world.

My wife Elaine and I had reconciled since our last extended break, but she was struggling to show enthusiasm for this strange twist I brought into our lives. Nevertheless, she offered her hospitality to Professor Ettinger during his stay. Before he returned to Michigan, he thanked Elaine and in parting said, “I'll see you again. If not in a year—well—in a thousand years.”

Cryonics was uncharted territory, and deciding what path CSC should take was crucial to its long-term success. Some cryonics groups were focusing on gaining membership; others were preparing storage for the expected flood of frozen patients.

I figured that if doctors were ever going to revive a frozen patient, we needed to protect the patient from damage caused by freezing. I decided that aggressive research would be our first priority.

Curtis Henderson and Saul Kent, the directors of CSNY, visited us in LA and arranged a meeting with Robert W. Prehoda, a medical researcher and prolific author studying cryobiology.

Meeting Robert at his home in Encino, California, was one of the most influential and informative conversations of my life. He was an expert in reduced metabolism and gave me a crash course in the underlying physics of cryonic freezing. Over the next several months, I went to college in his living room, and the coursework cemented my hope. I learned that on the evolutionary tree, man is not far from many natural hibernators.

I wrote Professor Ettinger about Robert and he wrote back that, yes, he knew of Robert's work but didn't have much respect for the man's character. Robert had praised
The Prospect of Immortality
after its initial release; however, he retreated from his original support after the scientific community disputed Ettinger's thesis. I saw Professor Ettinger's point but felt that Robert was too valuable and accepted him into the CSC.

I scavenged through Robert's brain for every morsel of information about the leaders in low-temperature biology. Slowly we established a bond, although he knew I was mainly after his knowledge and I knew he was interested in the potential dollars CSC could deliver from research grants. We had a mutually beneficial, though not particularly affectionate, relationship.

Robert created collaborations with other scientists working in reduced-metabolism research. Two months later, Robert set up a meeting at his home. Five colleagues were interested in forming a scientific advisory council for CSC because of the research's potential for groundbreaking discoveries. CSC would provide funding, and Robert would help apply for grants.

CSC Scientific Advisory Council

The council was happy to provide research into human suspended animation but wanted no part in actually freezing anyone. If the CSC did freeze someone, the affiliation would be irrevocably dissolved. At the end of our meeting, we all felt we had achieved a monumental step forward.

That evening, I went home and told my wife the news. I was still giddy and amazed that I, a nonscientist without a college degree, was collaborating with scientists in such a revolutionary field. I had come so far from my days as a homeless teenager and wanted Elaine to be proud of me. Ever since I had moved back home, she had kept herself involved with the children and firmly disconnected from cryonics.

“What do you think?” I prodded after I told her about the advisory council.

Elaine bit her lip. “Well, it helps, I suppose. I guess it sounds more respectable now than one of those groups obsessed with flying saucers or life on other planets.” She picked up Lori's ripped book bag. “But truly, Bob, who cares? Will it fix your daughter's backpack? That's what I'm concerned about. I tried calling you at work a dozen times today, and you weren't there earning a paycheck.”

“I had more important things to do than fixing someone's TV set. Don't you understand the potential of what we're doing?”

“I understand that we could become destitute. It's almost like a cult. You moved back home a few months ago, but are you really part of this family?”

Feeling equal measures of anger and guilt, I struck back, “Of course I am. Everything I do with cryonics is for our children—so that they can have a longer, better life. My parents thought I was stupid to want to reach for the stars. John, Lori, and Susan will know different because of the example I set.”

Elaine wouldn't back down. “Don't give me that. You're not with your kids. When you're not at work, you're there. When you should be at work, you're there. When you're at home, you're on the phone all the time. I even had to arrange a special code with my friends just so I would know they're calling. And honestly, all this cryonics stuff is weird—just plain weird.”

I stormed outside and collapsed onto the porch steps. If I couldn't win the heart and mind of my own wife, then what prayer did I have for convincing the rest of the country?

One day in December 1966, a phone call made me realize that word of our exploits and our lofty goals had spread far beyond what I had anticipated.

“Hello,” said a sweet-sounding woman, “I am an associate of the Walt Disney studio. Are you the group involved in suspended animation?”

Walt Disney?
This call was huge. My mind started to race around her motivations—did she want to produce a film? Was Walt Disney interested for himself? I had heard he was close to death. . . .

“Yes, ma'am,” I managed to stutter out.

“Wonderful. I'm trying to get some information. How many people have been frozen? Where is your facility? What doctors are involved?”

My heart sank; I couldn't offer anything substantive. “Ma'am, we are still exploring the potential of this forward-looking science. No one has been frozen, and there is no cryogenic facility. We are in scientific collaborations with two medical doctors, Dr. Dante Brunol and Dr. Renault Able.” I summarized their credentials and our work with the advisory council.

“Thank you very much. You've been quite helpful.”

“Wait,” I said, but the phone call was over. I stared at the receiver for a long time, trying to process what the woman's motivations had been and frustrated that I didn't have more encouraging results to provide.

I never learned if she had called because of personal interest by Walt Disney, and I never heard from her again. I also never heard if anyone else in the cryonics community was contacted. As far as I know, this lone phone call is the entire basis for the urban legend that Disney was frozen. His family denies that he had any interest in cryonics, but I still like to believe that the curiosity of a visionary of Disney's caliber was piqued by the concept of suspended animation. If he had been the first person frozen, I am sure the trajectory of cryonics would have been far different and many of the later sad events would not have occurred.

Nevertheless, in December 1966, cryonics was a bright golden vista with limitless possibilities on the horizon. About one month after that phone call, the CSC, with an inexperienced TV repairman at the helm, accomplished the pioneering feat of freezing the first human by cryonic suspension.

Chapter 4

Man Becomes Immortal

In early 1967, Robert Prehoda and I were
at our offices in Westwood, working on a list of promising foundations that would accept our research proposals. I received a call from a funeral director; he spoke fast and sounded desperate.

“This is Mr. Clark from the Stedford Mortuary in Glendale,” he said. “We have a gentleman giving us just a god-awful time about wanting to freeze his father, who's very close to death. I have no idea what in the world he's talking about, and he won't leave until I arrange to have his father frozen.” He exhaled through the phone. “Would you please talk to him? Maybe you can make some sense.”

The man in the mortuary office was Norman Bedford, and his father, Dr. James Bedford, wanted to be frozen and suspended. I asked Mr. Clark to hold on for a moment while the shock subsided enough so I could speak sensibly. Then I said, “Mr. Clark, my name is Robert Nelson. I'm the president of the Cryonics Society of California, and I think I can help you.”

I wrote down his phone number and promised I'd call him right back. I dropped the phone back in its cradle and realized that I had five minutes to accomplish what I couldn't in the past six months—convince Robert that a successful freezing would catapult our goals and outreach forward by years. With this decision, we would be crossing Caesar's Rubicon. We would be staking our reputation and legacy on an untried, and by many accounts unscientific, scheme.

After thinking for a few minutes and mentally compiling a list of a hundred tasks, I decided just to be truthful and gauge his reaction.

I walked into his office and said, “That call was from a mortuary in Glendale. The funeral director has a client who wants his father's body frozen. Apparently the man's near death.”

“Oh my God,” Robert said. He dropped his pen and stared at me over his reading glasses. “I hope you're not going to do it! We haven't perfected a protocol yet, and you know damn well it's going to piss off the advisory council.”

I needed time to consider the ramifications and ask Professor Ettinger for guidance, but Robert's stern rebuke told me I had to think fast. “How about I invite this young man for a talk tomorrow before we draw any conclusions?”

Robert's face lit up, since I'd guaranteed he'd be included. He agreed to meet Norman and offered his elegant home in Encino. I called the Stedford Mortuary back, and Mr. Clark handed the phone to Norman. I assured him that he had called the right people to fulfill his father's wishes. We agreed to meet at Robert's house the following morning at 9:00 a.m.

I called Professor Ettinger that evening, excited that I could give such good news to this man who had changed my life. I left the decision up to him.

“This is wonderful news and the most exciting development to date,” he said. “This will open the field to the entire world—someone of Bedford's caliber, a university psychology professor, will be magic. We need to do this if we possibly can.” Such is the brilliant logic of my hero friend and father of the cryonics movement. He advised me to proceed with coordinating the men and necessary equipment for this historic event.

I replied, “I'm concerned though. We're likely to lose our scientific advisory board.”

Professor Ettinger wasn't worried. “If you're truly ready, then you should proceed anyway. This is far more important. Freezing the first man will be a major accomplishment, garnering worldwide attention. You'll probably get these guys back afterwards.”

I agreed with him. Indeed, such a profound success would eclipse any problems that could arise from losing the board's support. I threw out another concern: “Prehoda's worried that the protocol is too damaging to the brain.”

“I've examined the details. It's close enough. I'll ship the cardiac compression machine you'll need during the perfusion operation.” He paused for a moment and his voice sounded more reflective. “You're starting an amazing voyage.”

Professor Ettinger asked me several questions about the intended doctor, the chemicals, and the immediate storage.

I hung up, feeling assured. I was confident enough to believe that it could be done and optimistic enough to not understand why it shouldn't. Through his approval, Ettinger decided that CSC would freeze the first human being.

The next morning I sat on the sofa in Prehoda's parlor, thinking about questions and strategies for the meeting. Dr. Dante Brunol had arrived; he was a biophysicist working on a perfusion procedure—a step-by-step guide for preserving a human being. I felt his presence lent much-needed medical credibility as well as another friendly opinion on human freezing.

Soon after Brunol, Norman Bedford rang the doorbell. He was about thirty, with a beard and close-cropped dark hair, but the intensity on his face was almost scary. Since his father was dying and he was exploring quite an exotic option, I was sure that exacerbated his high-strung personality. I began by asking Norman about his expectations.

Flush-faced and frenetic, Norman fired out questions: “My father wants to be frozen and that's it. Can we do it? What needs to be done?” He wagged his finger in my face. “My father is near death, and I don't have time to deal with anyone who's going to drag their feet.”

I tried to ease Norman's fears; the man's hands just would not stop twitching. “You're talking to the right people. Your father will be the first case, but CSC has invested a lot of research into cryonics; we're prepared to do it right.”

He seemed to relax a little. He said his father had read Professor Ettinger's book, discussed longevity in his classes, and determined to be frozen when he died.

I decided to plunge further: “We need your father's written authorization before we can do anything.”

“That won't be a problem, considering it was his idea anyway.”

Then there was the necessary funding to provide for all the supplies. I launched into a long list of chemicals and equipment necessary to complete the procedure, along with a temporary dry-ice storage container for the patient and, finally, a second container for the patient, to be filled with liquid nitrogen for the duration of the suspension. There was also the problem of where the liquid nitrogen container would be stored.

Norman had been writing all this down, his hand flying across his notebook. He leaned in to speak, his nose about four inches from mine. “Can the society provide all those requirements? If you can't, then I'll find someone who'll get what you can't.”

“I believe we can,” I replied, using my soothing fatherly voice. “But we'll need a cooperating doctor at the moment of death.”

“Just give me whatever papers you need and my dad will sign them,” Norman responded. “As for money, my father has three hundred thousand dollars in a foundation for cryobiological research, and I am director of that foundation. Will that be enough to cover the expenses of my father's freezing?”

Robert's eyes widened, and a slight smile appeared; that much money definitely got his attention. I requested that Norman allow a private moment among my colleagues.

We excused ourselves into the kitchen, and I asked Dr. Brunol, “What do you think?”

He almost jumped into my arms while replying “Yes.” I smiled and then looked at Robert, suggesting that he could act as an advisor. I could see he was anxious to perform the suspension. I reminded him that we'd lose our scientific advisory council.

“Well,” Robert shrugged, thinking about the ramifications, “perhaps for just a little while.”

I could not believe our luck. Not only had we secured Robert's support, but he had agreed to help organize the actual freezing. I was giddy; here was the action I so craved, and I felt absolutely confident that I could engineer this procedure.

I spent the next several days constructing the dry-ice box, coordinating people's schedules, and purchasing syringes and the chemicals with the proper purity. It seemed incredible that with such seemingly mundane tasks, we were preparing to freeze the very first human being for future reanimation.

Dr. Brunol had given me a checklist of chemicals and equipment needed for his perfusion procedure. Although the specifics are certainly outdated today, the overall goals remain the same—to protect the brain and cells. At normal body temperature, the brain is not damaged for about five minutes after clinical death. With a decrease in body temperature, the brain is less dependent on oxygen and can be starved of oxygen for progressively longer periods of time. The body must be cooled, as protection of the brain is the prime consideration; this is truly the only irreplaceable organ. However, with the cooling, the doctor must prevent ice crystals from forming inside the cells. Water expands when it freezes, and since the human body is composed of more than 75 percent water, the cells would burst when the body is cooled below freezing. Special chemicals—such as glycerol with dimethyl sulfoxide (DMSO), which is injected into the bloodstream—absorb about 90 percent of the cells' water so that ice crystals form outside the cells rather than inside.

Also, the term
freeze
is somewhat of a misnomer. During perfusion, these chemicals cause the body to harden, or vitrify, like glass, not actually freeze, in order to minimize the damage to the body.

In the midst of this frenzied activity, Norman called. Dr. Bedford had changed his mind, saying that he was so old and decrepit he was not worth the effort or the money.

Professor Ettinger sent him a telegram and in one sentence changed Dr. Bedford's mind. Ettinger wrote, “Dr. Bedford, it is not a question of whether or not you are worth it, it is a question of whether such reanimation is possible—and if it is possible, then certainly you are worth it!”

When Dr. Bedford's perfusion became definite, I told Elaine. She was supportive and understanding, especially that night.

“That's really going to happen? You're really going to do this?” she asked. Elaine sounded cheery, with just a tinge of skepticism.

I nodded. I was grinning and floating and trying hard not to spin around the room. My little princess Susan felt the jubilation and danced around for me. I'd been slaving away for days, trying to coordinate all the manpower and the supplies; finally, with my family I allowed myself to indulge in some hard-won happiness.

My excitement was infectious. Elaine wrapped her arms around my neck and said, “I'm happy for you. I know you've wanted this.” She leaned back, lifted my chin with her forefinger, and rocked her head back and forth, reading my eyes. “Wow, my husband is going to freeze the first man ever. Isn't that something?”

I grabbed her hands and said, “This'll change things for us. Are you ready?”

Elaine, ever the understanding wife and mother, just smiled and nodded.

I was anxious to meet Dr. Bedford; he was a courageous pioneer. A few days later I walked into his spartan room at the nursing home and saw that he was awake. Although he was obviously weak, his eyes blazed with a fire and awareness as he looked out an adjacent window.

I quietly walked to his bedside and introduced myself. After a pause, he looked at me, realizing I was the director of his impending suspension. With an ever-so-slight smile, he said in a hushed tone, “I have little hope of ever being reanimated, Mr. Nelson, but I believe in the future of cryonics. I hope my children or grandchildren will benefit from this inevitable medicine of the future.” The sincerity in his eyes was clear and undeniable.

The next day, January 12, 1967, we substituted Dr. Renault Able for Dr. Bedford's attending physician.

Dr. Bedford was expected to live only a few more days, so we wanted to be ready when the time came. Robert and I had just picked up the necessary chemicals and were back in the office when Dr. Able called.

“I just pronounced him dead,” he said.

I was caught off guard and didn't know what he was talking about at first. “Who?”

“Bedford! Who did you think?” He sounded more than a little anxious. “Did you procure the DMSO?”

“Shit!” I said, feeling disoriented. “I thought he had a couple days left.”

“Patients tend not to wait for permission. Did you get the goddamned DMSO?”

“Yes. We just got back.”

“Good. Please hurry. The scant amount of ice I have is starting to melt. You need to pick up more. He's on the heart compressor, but nothing else can happen until you arrive with those chemicals.”

“We're on our way.”

Dr. Able had witnessed Bedford's heart stop beating, pronounced him deceased, and then stepped aside. The perfusion team consisted of Dr. Brunol, Robert, and me in a treatment room at the nursing home. After we packed the patient in more ice, Dr. Brunol and Robert began injecting the biological antifreeze of 15 percent DMSO in Ringer's solution into Bedford's body. Heart compressions with the Westinghouse “Iron Heart” circulated the life-preserving liquid through his body. No blood was removed, as would become the practice in the future. By later standards, the two-hour perfusion process was crude. It was a primitive but glorious start. Robert commented in his 1969 book,
Suspended Animation,
that “the primitive equipment did not allow a precise measurement of DMSO penetration, but the perfusion appeared to be uniform.”

We cooled down Dr. Bedford stepwise. The cryogenic cooling process began even before the perfusion, with Dr. Able surrounding the patient with ordinary water ice, at 32°F. When the perfusion was complete, Dr. Bedford was removed from the mountain of crushed ice and lifted from the operating table into a bed of much colder dry ice (-109°F) inside a wooden, polystyrene-lined container. He was then covered with more dry ice and transported to Robert's house. For permanent storage, Dr. Bedford would be immersed finally in liquid nitrogen, which is far colder yet, -320°F. At this final temperature, chemical and biological activity has practically ceased, and tissue will not decay for hundreds or even thousands of years.