by Bob Nelson
They were engrossed with cryonics, poring through the brochures and making plans to form their own group. Surprisingly, the freezing arrangements went smoothly considering that we were in the middle of the Midwest. I had never been to Iowa, but I always assumed that a place like Des Moines would not receive me or cryonics very well. However, I was happily wrong. Within a few days, I found a cooperating doctor and mortuary.
A week after I arrived, death came in the night for Mildred Harrington. As I submerged her body in ice, Terry closely monitored the procedure to make sure every strand of hair was frozen properly in place. I called Professor Ettinger and Joseph with the unhappy news, and they hopped on planes. The perfusion went smoothly, and the brothers quickly transitioned from heartache to showmanship. The local newscast loved the story of Mildred’s suspension, and the Harrington brothers loved the attention. Whenever there was a camera in a crowd, Terry found it.
Among the clamor of microphones and interviews, Joseph Klockgether commented, “These Harrington brothers are media hounds. I don’t typically see folks acting like this, even in LA. I’m sure they’re grieving, but it seems they care more about publicity than the perfusion.”
I waved off Joseph’s concerns and smiled. Their mother had been sick for a long time, and I knew everyone grieved differently. I’ll admit it was amusing to see Terry sporting a comb and mirror in his back pocket and primping his long hair before stepping into the limelight. He picked out his clothes each morning with such care, trying on several outfits and debating the perfect balance between flamboyance and mourning.
Joseph flew back to Los Angeles to transport Mildred to his mortuary, while I remained at Dennis’s apartment for another week. The hospital where Terry worked was hosting a symposium titled “Death and the Dying Process” and invited me to speak about cryonics. Standing at the podium, I felt trepidation and sweaty palms and yet an equal measure of amazement at the paths of life. Here I was, with barely a high-school education, lecturing nearly one hundred physicians about cryonics.
When Terry and Dennis completed the donation paperwork and the seminar was over, I said good-bye to the brothers, wished them well, and returned to LA to commence my weekly ritual of replacing Mildred’s dry ice in the vault.
Week after week, Frank Farrell and I accomplished the dangerous, Herculean task of replacing the dry ice. The underground vault had little if any ventilation, and every week we needed to replenish at least three hundred pounds of dry ice, which sublimes into carbon dioxide gas. We pumped out the foot of water that had accumulated during the week on the vault floor. Frank flashed the light in the vault and illuminated the remaining inch of icky, unpumped water with hundreds of floating spider carcasses swirling around Mildred’s container.
I knew the dangers; any mistake would be deadly. A single breath of the carbon dioxide would have rendered me unconscious, and Frank would be unable to immediately assist or lift me out of the vault before I asphyxiated. Half-joking, I once told Frank that if I did stumble, he should allow me to stay, as I lay among my friends.
Typically, I went down the ladder into the vault at the cemetery while Frank assisted topside. Darkness shrouded the damp walls and farther recesses of the vault, but I knew crawling spiders were there. After taking several quick breaths, I swallowed my fright, inhaled deeply, rushed down the ladder, and removed the lid of the temporary storage container. Then I scurried back up the ladder, gasping for air. That first trip was merely the prelude to the real work.
I lugged forty pounds of dry ice, cut into four two-inch-thick slices wrapped in thick paper, onto my shoulder. Balancing them, I hurried down to the floor, ripped off the paper, and placed the dry ice into the container. I then scurried up the ladder toward daylight and gasped for air. For eight trips up and down, I repeated that procedure, worried that each trip would be my last. I needed thick gloves to avoid cold burns, but they made it difficult to grip the ladder rungs, making a slip more likely. If I fell, I knew I’d instinctually inhale and then die. When I climbed out of the hole after the final trip, I dropped onto my back on the cemetery grass, regaining my breath, relieved we were done for another week. I never told my wife or my kids about this part of my job for fear that they would insist I quit.
After twenty weeks of that adrenaline-filled terror, we added an emergency scuba rig at the bottom. The spooky vault still resembled a medieval dungeon until we rigged up electric lights and a blower to disperse the suffocating gas. Then our job was more relaxed and I needn’t fear for my life each week.
After Mildred had been in temporary storage for two years, the brothers asked if they could hold a two-hour memorial service and a viewing of their mom. This intriguing request provided several challenges, and I was excited to carry out their wishes. I consulted with Joseph, and we designed a special casket with a liquid-nitrogen spray device connected to a thermostat and a spray valve to keep Mildred at low temperature during the service. I knew Mildred was in no danger of thawing during the hours of the memorial, but we didn’t want to needlessly worry her sons. The total cost of the service and this special casket was five thousand dollars. The family eagerly set a date.
We purchased an inexpensive casket and tore out the padding, then bought polyurethane insulation for the bottom and sides. Once mixed, these two chemicals, a polyol and an isocyanate, would harden within three minutes and needed to be poured immediately. Those liquids were extremely toxic; I didn’t want them around my kids or to let my wife know I was risking my life once again, so I went to the home of a very tolerant friend.
Standing in Mark’s garage, I picked up one of the chemical bottles, the isocyanate, emblazoned with several warnings and a skull and crossbones. The liquids emitted a horrible-smelling toxic gas that could kill a person with prolonged exposure. I was amazed at all the life-threatening adventures I’d accumulated with cryonics—the cloak-and-dagger maneuvering with off-kilter clients, the weekly descent into the claustrophobic vault filled with suffocating carbon dioxide, and now exposing myself to what I presumed was cyanide gas. I looked down at the casket and ruefully told myself that if this task poisoned me, then at least I could fall into my final resting place.
I genuflected in my mind and began pouring the chemicals; I soon felt dizzy and nauseated, so we opened the garage door and pulled the casket out into the alleyway to allow the fumes to escape. We finished after an hour and pulled the casket back into the garage; we went into the house and cleaned up. Ten minutes later I heard banging on the front door. Mark was still scrubbing the persistent smell off his hands, so I opened his door and was confronted by four policemen, hands on their holsters. I obeyed their orders and put up my hands. Mark and I exchanged questioning glances as we got frisked; I hated that feeling of unwelcome hands roving all over my body.
After the search was over, an officer asked, “All right, who’s in that coffin you got there in your garage?”
I heaved a sigh of relief and replied, “Come on. We’ll show you.” They followed us into the garage, and I showed them the empty casket. The almond smell of the noxious gas was still clinging to the polyurethane, and the cops were anxious to return to the alley. I explained that we were working on an experiment and apologized. It never dawned on us what the neighbors might think. We had an uneasy laugh and said good-bye to the police.
Finally the day for the memorial arrived. Santa Ana winds blew in hot temperatures, and I was glad we had taken the extra precaution of the liquid-nitrogen casket. The Harrington brothers managed to amuse me again; Terry was dressed all in white and Dennis all in black. Terry worked diligently on his mother’s makeup. I allowed him fifteen-minute intervals to work his magic before closing the lid and turning on the liquid-nitrogen spray. Mildred stayed cold—from her black wig and false eyelashes down to the hem of her embroidered white gown. She had an aura of the fairy-tale princess Sleeping Beauty.
Ten guests attended the viewing. The memorial proceede
d just as any other funeral service. It didn’t seem to bother anyone that she had been dead for two years—their reaction gave me hope that cryonics would find wider acceptance. Her relatives lingered at the open casket, commenting about how wonderful she looked and that it was such a blessing to see her again. I was content to stand at the back of the chapel in Joseph’s mortuary, feeling gratified that I was able to make this day happen.
I overheard a buxom aunt decked out in pink chiffon and swishing a lacy fan say, “Oh, Terry, she’s purty as a picture. Your momma was always such a stylish woman. You’ve done her proud.”
One gentleman, obviously a farmer from his tanned, leathery skin and roughened hands, came up to me and said, “You’re in charge here right? I remember you from Iowa.”
I shook his offered hand and nodded.
“This is some amazing technology you got here. Mildred looks like she closed her eyes forever just an hour ago. What a comfort this must be to the boys, since their momma was such an amazing woman. This all is different from what I’m used to, to be sure. But those brothers are different too. The service suits them.”
Dennis and Terry approached me after the memorial, and Dennis gave me a bear hug that cracked my back and lasted several seconds beyond comfortable. He said, “I thank you. This memorial was worth every penny.”
I pushed against his muscled chest, released myself from his strong arms, and responded, “I’m glad it was a comfort. Perhaps you’ve started a new tradition.”
Terry’s eyes grew wide as though he’d just had a revelation. “Why, yes! I’ve always wanted to be a trendsetter. Perhaps I’ve found my calling.”
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.
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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.