by Bob Nelson
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 sh
are 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.
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.