Freezing People is (Not) Easy (6 page)

And I found that proof in the most unlikely place.

A few months after reading the book, I was still floundering, unsure if cryonics would dim from my consciousness or where it might lead. I was with my two daughters, Lori and Susan, absorbed in their universe of wide-eyed child discovery and worrying they would run off, so I brought them to a pet store because Susan loved the puppies.

At the checkout counter, hanging on a rack for last-minute purchases was a cellophane-wrapped package with giant red letters:
Just add water. Watch them come to life.

As Lori wandered off to look at bunnies, I just stood there staring as the implications slowly washed over me. Susan saw it too and put a chubby finger on the red lettering. She sounded out the words.

“See . . . mon-kees.” She looked up at me with big eyes. “Sea monkeys? That's funny.”

“Yeah,” I replied only half listening, concentrating too much on the fine print. “Yeah!” I repeated, more excited. I grabbed five packages and plopped them down on the counter. “When we go to your mom's, let's do a science experiment.” I looked over my shoulders, scanning the aisles for Lori. “C'mon, c'mon,” I hustled the kids out with the same excitement I'd often seen in them. I wanted to see the promised illustrations in action.

I raced back to Elaine's house with the kids, and she was gracious enough to let me set up in her kitchen. Lori grabbed a glass of water, while I ripped through the cellophane and tore open the Sea-Monkeys packet. A few particles of the beige powder went airborne, dancing in the golden light of late afternoon that streamed through Elaine's windows. I slowly, carefully, almost grain by grain, poured the powder into the glass of water.

We leaned in; Lori, Susan, and I knocked heads. Elaine stood back with an amused smile she reserved just for me.

Slowly, as if on command, little brine shrimp answered the curtain call. They emerged from tiny eggs and started swimming in the water. I beckoned Elaine to come over and see the sea monkeys for herself.

She crossed the kitchen and looked down on the glass, running her hand through Susan's hair. “Hmm, is that kind of like yeast?”

I felt light-headed. “Yeast? What do you mean?”

Elaine grabbed a foil package from a cupboard. “Yeast. It sits on a shelf until you need it; add water and sugar to wake them up. . . .” Her voice trailed off.

My mind started swimming again. That day, I witnessed suspended animation at work in single-celled microscopic yeast and this higher-order animal. Granted, these were just shrimp, not anywhere near as complex as a human, but they held possibility and hope in their random swimming. Their life had been suspended until my kids and I created the environment they needed to be reanimated. I was giddy. I now had my answer; I now had my proof.

I planted a big kiss on Elaine, probably an inappropriate kiss, considering our separate living arrangement, and floated out into a moonless night. I looked up at the twinkling stars and wondered which ones were now within reach.

There are actually many examples of suspended animation in nature. In southern Alaska, at the base of the White Horse Mountains, there is a snake that routinely undergoes a freezing phenomenon that is spectacularly enchanting to witness.

These snakes gather in autumn to breed, coming to a barren meadow by the thousands in their mating frenzy. After their annual breeding is complete, the snakes normally return to their underground homes to hibernate for the long, cold Alaskan winter.

Sometimes, sudden blizzards will capture thousands of these snakes before they can retreat to the safety of their burrows. Unprepared for the harsh icy grip of winter, the snakes are caught mid-slither and frozen solid in every imaginable configuration, their vast number extending to the horizon. They are then covered with several feet of winter's snow and will stay entombed for several months until surrendering to the warming rays of the spring.

An enchanting spectacle follows when the snow gives way to the first tender rays of spring's warmth. Winter's frigid grip begins to lessen its hold on these frozen lovers, slowly at first, then accelerating to where the snow melts, revealing its precious encased cargo.

During those first moments of sunlight, I would wonder if these frozen snakes covering a vast field were able to sustain and endure. And then the magic starts. One lone creature crosses back across that frozen chasm between life and nonlife, wriggling and squirming against months of lethargy. After about an hour of sunlight, dozens, hundreds, and then several thousands of the frozen snakes give a slight tremble.

Over the next hour, the entire mass of snakes shows a sustained quiver. Soon after, one by one, they begin to slither away—to return to their breeding ground the following year and perhaps once again get caught up in a winter wonderland.

That life can be frozen and arrested for long periods of time, and then resume when returned to a more favorable environment, is part of nature's design to save species from certain death. Humanity is now awakening to the reality that we too can use this gift of low-temperature biology. We can save and prolong the precious life of people who choose to take that chance on future technology.

Chapter 3

A TV Repairman Takes the Reins

A month later, I was stopped in traffic
on the freeway, listening to Tony Bennett's “If I Ruled the World,” when the DJ interrupted, speaking in a sarcastic tone. “If any of you listeners out there don't like the idea of dying someday, just call Helen Kline and get yourself invited to the first meeting of the Life Extension Society,” he said. I turned up the volume and grabbed pen and paper from the glove box. “They believe that if you get your body frozen, then someday you can come back to life. Just imagine what a gas it'll be to see how much the world has changed in the next couple hundred years.”

I nearly rear-ended the car in front of me. That DJ never realized the impact of his playful announcement on people's lives. I decided to attend this meeting and do whatever I could to support their goals.

In Los Angeles on May 13, 1966, I attended California's first LES meeting. As I got out of my Porsche, I spotted a ghostly house that reminded me of the Norman Bates house on the top of the hill in the movie
Psycho.
Chills coursed up my spine. However, not being superstitious, I just grinned at the ominous start of the evening and wondered what other surprises awaited me as I climbed the long stairs to Helen's door.

An elderly lady with an angelic smile greeted me at the entrance. We introduced ourselves and, strangely, I felt somehow connected to her. Helen looked worn out; she had a pronounced hump on her back and thinning gray hair. Helen's lips were pale, and her complexion was ashen white. She was also very thin, a side effect of the severe lung cancer that was slowly stealing away her life. She carried a huge wad of paper towels in her right hand and consistently coughed into it.

Through it all, she wore a radiant smile and a bright flowery dress and adorned herself with countless bracelets and a clunky necklace. Her sparkling eyes conveyed this beautiful lady's fighting spirit as she projected an energy comparable to a wildfire. She was not going to give up the ghost without a fight.

Single-handedly, she had brought together people who embraced Professor Ettinger's book and had gotten this meeting publicized on the radio. A frail little old lady had pulled off California's very first meeting to promote cryonics.

This meeting was nothing like I had imagined. There were no scientists in white lab coats, no businessmen wanting to capitalize on this profound event. With so many elderly people, this appeared to be an old-timers' storytelling group. I could see this was far from a scientific group of actual researchers but instead people who loved the idea of extended life. For me its purpose was tantamount to the first landing of an alien spaceship, intent on delivering control of aging and human immortality.

Professor Ettinger's book stirred up a fire in all of us. We looked at one another with the same expectant expression, gauging the hidden wisdom each might extol. Everyone's searching gaze communicated the same thought: Was this real?

I studied the other participants. Russ Stanley was a tall, thin, elderly man. He slouched over at the neck when he talked to me. He had an uncomfortable habit of getting his face close to mine as he spoke, and I could feel the spray on my face. Mixed with the saliva, however, was an encyclopedic knowledge of cryonics history from one of the world's most enthusiastic advocates.

“All human beings are on a sojourn here on Earth,” he told me. “The most important part of this journey is to discover the revelations given to mankind by the Creator. Suspended animation is one of these great gifts.”

Russ played an audiotape of Professor Ettinger's appearance on the
Johnny Carson Show
with Zsa Zsa Gabor. It was not easy for the physicist, since Johnny was poking fun and Zsa Zsa was injecting a sexy element into the mix. Nevertheless, he sounded brilliant. I'd not heard him speak before, and the professor's passion and eloquence intensified my belief in low-temperature biology.

“This science is no different than any other discipline of technology,” Russ continued. “Human beings have advanced in every branch of science, and we continue to discover better ways. That will never change. We will continue to progress up and up and up forever—that will never change!”

Hearing Russ voice our shared philosophy, I knew I had found my people. I felt an immediate connection with this meeting's participants.

Several college students were present, including Dennis Guiley, who, from what I overheard, knew a lot about cryonics suspension. I wandered over and asked, “How will science improve human suspension?”

Dennis waved that off as he wove his fingers through his dreadlocks. “I don't really care about that; I'm more interested in the religious ramifications. I think we should first consider the effect on future world history rather than lab research.”

I nodded, chagrined. Dennis had an infuriating mind-set: no chutzpah, only deep, mind-altering discussions. I was frustrated—I wanted action and I wanted it now! I also found myself in the unexpected position of being among the most knowledgeable people at the meeting, since I had read Professor Ettinger's book along with years of astronomy society articles
.

Dick Jones was an attractive, articulate, middle-aged gentleman with a smiling face that made me want to laugh with him. Dick told me he had visited Michigan and met Professor Ettinger and likened the professor to Alexander Graham Bell or Thomas Edison. In time we became good friends, and he gave me passes to his comedy appearances with his partner, Jenna McMahon. They had written countless episodes for
The Carol Burnett Show
and won several Emmys.

I strolled over to a striking redhead, about forty years old, and my eyes kept veering toward her cleavage. Marcelon Johnson was an intelligent lady who impressed me with her broad knowledge. “As research continues, we should expect slow but steady advances as science freezes more biological organisms successfully. To not want it, I can understand. But not to see its inevitability, I cannot understand.”

After several rounds of Pepsis and tea sandwiches, Marcelon called everyone together and suggested we accomplish some business. She asked if anyone knew the legalities of forming a nonprofit group to support low-temperature biology. I stuck my hand up and responded that my dear friend and attorney, Stella Gramer, likely would guide us around any legal minefields.

As we were concluding, Helen answered a knock at the door.

Dr. Renault Able had arrived.

His singular appearance commanded our attention; we just stared with our mouths agape. Dr. Able glided across the foyer, preparing to hold court. He wore diamonds, rubies, and sapphires on almost every finger, elevator shoes, and a suit that looked spun with magical silk. He had intense eyes and extremely thin lips, the whole effect reminiscent of Batman's nemesis, the Joker.

He spoke with a high-pitched voice and the showy, flowing gestures of an interpretive dance performer. “I have an interest and willingness to act as this group's official medical doctor. I must depart forthwith to perform a very lengthy surgery, so I must take my leave at once. Nevertheless, I wanted to grace this organization with my appearance and voice my consent to be counted as a member.” With that, he proffered his business card, turned around, and sauntered out. Overcome with curiosity I ventured outside to see if his exit would be as dramatic as his entrance. He didn't disappoint; he stepped into a gleaming Rolls-Royce and drove away.

That meeting was quite remarkable, considering it attracted such a diverse mix of people. It made sense though. Despite our differences, we all will die, and we all wish to preserve the fragile strings keeping us tethered to this life.

Fate touched me on the shoulder that night, and four weeks later I was elected president at our second meeting. I felt quite humbled by this responsibility bestowed upon me. These people felt that I, a TV repairman, was worthy of directing this very important mission. In that moment, I found the legacy of my life.

I responded that I was willing to accept the responsibility until a more-qualified professional became available. All I had to do was figure out how to defeat death—and convince the world to accept it.

Several months later I incorporated the nonprofit Cryonics Society of California after a visit from CSNY (Cryonics Society of New York) president Curtis Henderson and its secretary, Saul Kent. CSNY had existed for a year, and we adopted its infrastructure. Saul and Curtis gave us an enormous education on cryonics and advised us to find a cooperating mortuary along with medical and hospital officials that would respect a patient's dying wish for interment. They were so helpful in getting the CSC started, and I have been indebted to them ever since.

I was elected president of the CSC; Dick Jones was secretary, and Marcelon Johnson was treasurer. During our third meeting at Helen Kline's home, Dr. Able surfaced again. We were delighted to see a medical doctor, and this time he said he could stay awhile. After we briefed him on the developments of the past three months and he discovered that I was president, he expressed his displeasure that an ordinary engineer was presiding over such a controversial group.

I took a deep breath, bracing myself for his reaction. “You have been misinformed, Dr. Able. I am not an engineer; I am a TV repairman.”

Hearing this information, he went ballistic; his face turned as purple as his amethyst cufflinks. “I really must insist that someone with respectable credentials lead the society.”

I smiled. I was fine with having a new leader. “Whom would you suggest direct our group?” I looked around the room. “Russ Stanley?”

He was immediately dismissed.

“How about Dennis Guiley?”

“A college student? Of course not,” snapped Dr. Able.

A tiny smile flashed across my face. “Then that only leaves one logical person to lead our group, which is you, Dr. Able. Would you be so kind as to accept this role?”

Now his face turned from amethyst to aubergine. Obviously he would not subject his practice to the potential ridicule. Dr. Able stood up and paced back and forth, saying nothing.

He abruptly spun on his heel and announced, “I must leave. I will contemplate the necessary steps to address this situation. A television repairman as president of this organization is quite simply unacceptable.”

With that, Dr. Able left and never attended another meeting. He phoned us occasionally and reiterated his willingness to help, but he still felt embarrassed by the society's choice of president.

Once we received our corporate approval and nonprofit status, Stella Gramer gave us a suite of offices in Westwood, California. Over the next six months, we appeared on several radio and television programs promoting cryonics and enlisted a prestigious scientific advisory board. All those tasks were to create the infrastructure for the action I so strongly craved.

Being elected president of the CSC was both humbling and ennobling. Before the first meeting, I didn't think I was qualified even to attend, yet they had placed the entire operation in my inexperienced hands.

The honor brought me directly into the path of Professor Robert Ettinger. Once the CSC had raised enough funds, we petitioned Professor Ettinger to travel to California from Michigan and speak to our group about his thesis of extended life.

I was nervous about meeting the man who had changed the trajectory of my life. Never before had I so keenly felt the invisible cloak of my TV repairman job upon me. I worried that, like Dr. Able, he would find me wholly unsuitable.

Before Professor Ettinger arrived, I waited in Helen's living room. Nearby there was a huge table with juices, doughnuts, and apples, but I couldn't eat anything. I saw him enter, and since I'd always imagined him in a lab coat, his fine tailored suit was initially disconcerting. But it was a moment that will live in my memory for all time
.
How often does a person meet his hero?

Professor Ettinger had a commanding presence. When we shook hands, I felt this electric anticipation, and I hoped he didn't notice my sweaty palms. His eyes were striking; they were friendly but showed a sharp awareness that noticed every detail. I knew I couldn't participate in deep intellectual discussions about the intricacies of biophysics and cryonic research—at least not yet. We shared the same passion though, the same keen desire to move science out of the sterile confines of the laboratory and into the messy surroundings of life and death.

This brilliant physicist was a revelation. I learned a great deal from listening to him speak at the meeting. He had a way of simplifying complex concepts so that the layman could easily comprehend, and he did so eloquently. I later parroted many of his conceptualizations during TV and radio interviews.

He stayed as a guest in my home and addressed our group twice during his five-day visit. I realized how much we shared; he was called Bob by his friends and also married to an Elaine. In those few precious days, a complete metamorphosis occurred in my life. I was set free by Ettinger's and my shared love of science and life. It now seemed okay to reach for the moon.