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.

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 proceeded 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.”