Freezing People is (Not) Easy (15 page)

He attempted to repair the leak a few times, but disaster struck. One day Nick went to top off the liquid nitrogen, but it had long since evaporated. The capsule had been warm for weeks, and his wife had decomposed badly. It was heartbreaking; installing a simple input tube on the capsule for adding more liquid nitrogen could have avoided the ice problem and prevented the tragedy.

The sad end of Nick's beloved wife Ann and the other occupant was truly touching and sobering. He did everything possible to keep them in suspension, hoping to rejoin Ann someday, but there can never be a single mistake—not for hundreds of years.

Chapter 11

I Needed the Money

An intriguing New Yorker named Mary Goodman
phoned me. She was interested in cryonic suspension upon her death and hoped I could spend a day with her.

The lady's words rolled out silky and proper; she sounded like royalty but with an American accent. “I have been following cryonics for several years, and I want to investigate this as an option for myself,” she said.

I agreed to travel to New York if she paid for my time and expenses. She offered five thousand dollars. This princely sum blew me away; I was so broke I thought the phone call was a gift from God.

Ten days later I landed in New York and checked into the Manhattan Towers on 42nd Street. I was nervous and excited about meeting this generous lady. From her Park Avenue address, Mary Goodman was obviously wealthy and could be a benefactor.

At noon I arrived at her building; it was elegant beyond all expectations. The doorman noticed me, my chin high in the air as I gawked at the treasures surrounding me. I gave him my name, and his quizzical expression transformed to a smile.

“Madam is expecting you,” he replied with a curt bow, then escorted me through a palatial lobby with pink marble walls and a glittering chandelier high overhead to the golden penthouse elevator. As the doors opened onto her floor, a lady wearing a black satin dress and pearls was waiting. She was an attractive woman for her age, her beauty accentuated by her wealth and sophistication. She offered her fragile hand, adorned with an emerald-cut diamond ring as wide as her knuckle. I shook it gently as she gestured me to follow.

Her parlor was as imposing and imperious as a museum. My house could fit inside this room, and the walls soared to twenty feet overhead, allowing the sunlight and the surrounding city to envelop me. It was full of irreplaceable art objects, including marble busts, crystal vases, and several portraits. Woefully ignorant about art, I avoided giving an opinion on the paintings and sculptures, commenting instead on the magnificent skyline that surrounded us. The view from a wide expanse of windows overwhelmed me like the initial throes of puppy love—it was so unexpected and enthralling. The summits of so many skyscrapers backed by the Hudson River reminded me of the tree canopy in a verdant rain forest. Living at such a vantage point was a heavenly privilege reserved for a lucky few.

I ripped my attention away from the view and back to my hostess. After our introductions, we sat down to tea served with what I believe were crumpets. I had never seen them before, but they reminded me of small English muffins. Channeling memories of playing tea with my daughters, I pretended to enjoy those crumpets, but I really did find them nasty little things.

Clearing my throat to fight off my nervousness, I began. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting?” I cringed a little, hoping I sounded refined instead of someone playacting a role.

Mary sat up straight, her posture impeccable. Her finishing school classes had been many years ago, but she still carried the lessons with her. Her demeanor put me at ease though; she was warm, refined, and polite without a hint of pretension. “I believe this may be a preferred choice to burial or cremation,” she said. “I find it exciting that the science of the future could cure all diseases and return frozen people to a new life.”

She said that in a careful, prepared way, indicating she had memorized her statements and further assuring me her intentions were serious. I was impressed and told her so.

“You see, Mr. Nelson, I have followed the cryonics movement for some time now, from the shadows. I chose to speak to you because you froze the first man.”

I stapled on my sincere smile and said, “That is my purpose for being here. What would you like to know?”

She started with a rather curious question: “Have any famous or very wealthy people been frozen?”

I stopped swishing my spoon around my teacup and replied, “To the best of my knowledge, no. Probably the closest we came to a celebrity suspension was the late Walt Disney.”

She grew wide-eyed, and I knew I had her attention. “A Disney representative made this inquiry in 1966 before we froze Dr. Bedford. I told her we didn't have the necessary infrastructure at that time and that I regretted I couldn't give better answers to her questions. If things had worked out differently, Walt Disney could have been the first man frozen. Just imagine where the cryonics movement might be today.”

Unfortunately I could only recount our modest accomplishments. “Since the Disney inquiry, we have frozen several people and developed a cryonic storage facility in California, along with a private facility in New Jersey.” I gave her a meager list of doctors and scientists working with us.

“What evidence can you offer that cryonics may someday fulfill its promise?” she asked.

I smiled; she had some good questions mixed in with the silly ones. “I think the big question is whether life is static or dynamic. For me everything depends on that answer. Does life require a constant supply of spiritual energy to maintain its existence, or can that energy become latent during unlivable conditions? If so, can the same be replicated in humans? Several animals such as the marmot go dormant for months and then turn life on again when conditions improve. I think of life as something akin to a movie reel. Life energy does not vanish forever when the movie projector is turned off—it can still be recovered.

“From looking at nature, I am hopeful and optimistic. Numerous insects, fish, amphibians, and reptiles freeze for months each winter. These creatures demonstrate that life can be shut down by low temperature until a warmer, friendlier environment returns. Suspending biological activity has saved many species from extinction.”

I continued with evidence that had captivated me, mentioning one of my favorite authorities, the well-known and imaginative Russian scientist V. A. Negovskii. In his experiments he brought hundreds of animals to the brink of clinical death and then resuscitated them to a normal, healthy life. The capstone of his life's work,
Resuscitation,
provided lucid comments that certainly apply to human beings: “Death is due to the disturbance of vital mechanisms with irreversible changes in living matter, which disintegrates and decomposes. If the mechanism of life remains intact and its basic structure is not affected, then a complete cessation of life is possible which is not equivalent to death. For life can be restored by a change to more favorable conditions.”

Mary was spellbound. After another half hour, she suggested a lunch break. Her cook produced a startling array, including pâté and chateaubriand. Over lunch our conversation diverted to lighter topics.

Her question following lunch was whether she could guarantee to have money in the future. I explained that this was a major concern. “The law allows people to bequeath money for a ‘life-in-being plus ninety-nine years.' The life-in-being means you choose a trustee, and after that person's death, the ninety-nine-year period of the trust commences. Of course logic dictates choosing a young, healthy person. There are other alternatives, but they are more complicated.”

Her following questions were trivial. “What if I don't like the future? What if I am lonely?”

I indulged her and discussed her concerns by sharing an interview I had done on a television show.

“The host asked if I was married. I replied, ‘Yes.' Then he asked, ‘What if you died within the year and were frozen and revived fifty years later. Your wife is now eighty and you are thirty, what are you going to do?' I answered simply, ‘Get a divorce.'”

Mary patted my hand and said, “I feel for your wife.”

I smiled back. “No one is saying everything will be perfect—that's not the nature of life. Life is full of challenges. As Professor Ettinger has often said, ‘It's more interesting to be alive than dead.'”

Reveling in my impressive surroundings, I tried a different tack—one I hoped would reach her heart. “Mrs. Goodman, you obviously appreciate beautiful and valuable art. After you are gone, I'm sure you wouldn't want to see these priceless paintings tossed into a fire.”

She drew back, startled at the suggestion.

“You also are a radiant woman with so much to offer, and yet people think nothing of having themselves cremated. The life of every good person is a work of art. Just like these sculptures and paintings, such beauty as I see here,” I cupped her chin in my hand and looked into her eyes, “should be preserved. That is my life's goal.”

Mary gazed around the room at her accoutrements, studying them with a fresh perspective. I knew I had reached her, so I forged ahead. “Just as you value art and want to see it appreciated, I value the potential of future technology and abhor the idea of people needlessly going into the ground or the fire.” I gestured to a portrait of a young woman, but I couldn't tell if she wore Victorian or Elizabethan dress. “Look at this lady. She is stunning, and a painter immortalized her on canvas. We can see something of who she was; however, the painting is just a two-dimensional facade. This isn't her, and we know nothing of her. Now just imagine if the technology had existed then to cryogenically preserve this lady in the portrait so that she could know the future and future generations could know her. Just imagine the potential and excitement of that! We now have the power to immortalize our very selves, not just in the things we leave behind or in an image made in oils or in stone but ourselves—our memories, our minds. While art indirectly preserves the products and trappings of our minds, cryonics is the next logical step. It allows us to preserve life itself, the essence of our existence.”

We had been talking for several hours, and she asked if I would join her for dinner. I was delighted by her invitation, and we agreed that I would return to my hotel, rest a little, dress, and she would collect me at seven.

Finally I asked her what her thinking was about cryonic suspension. She replied that she definitely saw its logic but needed to speak to some cryobiologists before proceeding. She was bothered that these experts were so strongly opposed to cryonics.

I never heard from her again. I was dismayed and suspected that the long reach of the cryobiologists' cynicism had won over in her mind.

In later years, I received a small income from cosmetic preservation and storage that helped me fund the nonpaying suspensions for some time. Laura Coronel wanted to preserve the body of her father, Pedro Ladesma, not for reanimation but for some mysterious reason I was never able to learn.

Laura looked Hispanic, with straight black hair to her shoulders, and she always wore very expensive, hand-embroidered outfits. During our meetings she needed to take charge, continuously talked over me, and often seemed not to be listening to me at all.

While her sincerity and love for her father could never be questioned, I certainly wondered about her clearness of mind. Pedro Ladesma had been autopsied and embalmed and had remained for six months in cold storage at Forest Lawn Cemetery. My best guess was that his freezing was simply a cosmetic preservation for some political reason back in his native country.

My first meeting with Laura was so bizarre that I debated accepting her father into the Chatsworth vault. However, my patients needed me and I needed her money, so I ignored the peculiarities. She refused to meet at my office or any public location. Instead she gave exotic instructions to meet on a little street off Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles.

I waited about twenty minutes at the street corner before she pulled up slowly in her car and waved me over to her window. She handed me a piece of paper with instructions to go to a second location and wait. After ten minutes at the second spot, she drove by slowly while I looked around for anything suspicious, growing more paranoid each passing moment. These were techniques I remembered from my stepfather's mobster days. After a few more minutes, she raced up to my Porsche and hopped in, slamming down the lock button.

“Drive! Drive!”

Instinctually, my foot hit the gas. She committed a scant second to smoothing her hair before she devoted her energy to barking directions of right, left, right while scanning the road for trailing cars. When she sidled next to me to look in the rearview mirror, her expensive perfume was overwhelming.

I hoped all this danger was merely her delusions.

Laura's last direction was to turn right from a left-turn lane. I ignored the honking cars and worried about the real possibility of police sirens behind me. After twenty minutes of this craziness, she finally instructed me to stop in a grocery store parking lot. For some time I white-knuckled the gear shift, feeling light-headed from such a sustained adrenaline rush.

I started slowly, “I've got to know about all this cloak-and-dagger maneuvering.”

She leaned in and whispered, “I need to be very careful, since my father was a very important man. He was a very high official in South America. I cannot risk being discovered.”