by Bob Nelson
We began by releasing the vacuum between the two chambers. A cryogenic capsule is a giant thermos bottle with a vacuum drawn between the inner and outer cylinders. I explained to Ray that vacuum was the best possible insulation to maintain the four-hundred-degree temperature difference between the inner capsule and the Southern California weather. “It’s interesting that humans can’t survive in a vacuum or in liquid nitrogen, but both are necessary ingredients to preserve these lives.”
After Ray cut open the capsule and we spent four exhaustive hours positioning our friends, we had all four patients inside the rickety Nisco capsule. After the capsule was bolted and sealed, we connected the vacuum pump, recharged it with liquid nitrogen, and said a little prayer.
After checking the capsule every day for two weeks, I knew we were in terrible trouble. The vessel was worse than before. Even with the vacuum pump running continuously, the liquid nitrogen was disappearing quickly; I knew I couldn’t maintain the expense for very long. I felt frustrated and abandoned. I tried hard to not snap at the people helping me, especially Joseph and my wife Elaine.
We intended to keep the capsule at the mortuary until the vault was completed, but the health department was pressuring Joseph to relocate the frozen bodies. In May 1970 we moved the capsule to the Oakwood Memorial Park Cemetery in Chatsworth. Instead of placing the capsule into the vault, which had no electricity or ventilation, we placed it in the heavy equipment yard alongside the huge thirty-man capsule. If that were operational, it would solve all our problems, but instead it sat empty, silently mocking me. Frank Enderle gave me almost free rein at the cemetery to accomplish a goal that was becoming harder and harder to achieve. But failure was not an option; I just had to keep pushing forward.
Sometimes opportunities ride in on the wind, and sometimes they tap your shoulder. Months passed while the vault remained unfinished. Then late in the year, I befriended a gentleman named Frank Farrell. Frank was an anomaly, a defiant deviation from the standard order of human beings—he was exactly the opposite of what he appeared to be.
I was at a Santa Monica engineering office, trying to build a steel frame for the convertible top of my 1952 Porsche. Mine had been stolen while the Speedster was parked in downtown Westwood, and I was looking for someone who could fabricate this part for me. The frame had been unavailable from the Porsche dealer for more than ten years, and I had spent a year to find it.
I had just been told the usual “no way” by some so-called expert when Frank, who had been standing behind me, introduced himself. He looked as though he had just climbed out of a Dumpster. His clothes were a mess and likely had never seen an iron. Frank was about six feet tall, had poor posture, and could not have weighed an ounce over 120 pounds—a hunched human scarecrow. He had an enormous Adam’s apple, and his top front teeth protruded from his smile.
He announced that he could build me the part if he could copy an original. I was doubtful at first, but as we talked I could see this was no hobo. We had lunch and conversed for hours. Frank had no interest in the material trappings of life. He had no home or automobile. He lived intermittently with each of his three daughters. He made good money as an engineer and supported all three of his daughters but owned nothing of his own, except for a paper shopping bag he toted around in his filthy hands. Technical expertise aside, I wondered how his employer tolerated his appearance.
For one hundred dollars, Frank fabricated a perfect copy of the frame I needed. He installed it on my vehicle with a special bolt system so that no one could steal it again.
The man was brilliant. Over the course of a half-dozen years, Frank proved himself to be a magician in mangy dog clothing. He helped build the cryonics vault and skillfully maintained the rickety cryogenic capsules, along with our six testy high-vacuum pumps. He averted disaster countless times.
Frank refused to budge about his hygiene though. Sometimes I cringed, but I would put an invisible clothespin over my nose and remember the olfactory fortitude I had developed when I was a homeless teenager. Remembering those days, I couldn’t fathom how someone would choose to live with that stink. Nevertheless, he was a gift from heaven, a lovable friend who knew everything about everything.
He fixed each problem one by one. He brought in an aqualung and fans to improve air circulation. Also, I was paranoid about security. We didn’t want anyone knowing about the vault, entering the vault, or taking pictures of the vault, so Frank installed a high-tech lock that required a key turned a specific way or an alarm would sound.
I had recently seen 2001: A Space Odyssey, which had these mysterious black monoliths that were endowed with mystical powers of creation. Frank showed me plans for our vault cover, about ten feet long by five feet wide, which was a replica of the monolith on a sliding track. The steel plate was a perfect marker for the CSC vault, not bold or gaudy but a work of art.
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.