Freezing People is (Not) Easy by Bob Nelson, Kenneth Bly, PhD Sally Magaña Page B

this frail little woman. While in the final stages of lung cancer, Helen overcame her pain and suffering and found the strength to organize the first California cryonics meeting. I am forever indebted to her.

    I met Russ Stanley at that first meeting of California cryonicists in Helen’s home. He was a tall, slender older-looking gentleman with an obnoxious Cheshire cat grin, but quite athletic. He swam laps in his aboveground pool every day, even on the coldest winter morning.
    Every day for the next two years, he called and talked to me for hours if I couldn’t find a way to escape. It seemed he ate, drank, and slept cryonics. If there was anything about cryonics going on, anywhere in the country, he knew about it.
    He had accumulated every newsletter and article ever published on cryonics, enough to stuff a full-size file cabinet. His genuine enthusiasm was infectious, and he often provided great little pearls of new information.
    On September 6, 1968, I was in San Francisco organizing a new cryonics society. During the meeting, Paul Porcasi, the CSC secretary, phoned me that Russ had suffered a heart attack and been taken to the Santa Fe Medical Center in Los Angeles, where he had been pronounced dead.
    The hospital staff ignored the documentation Russ carried on him, which gave specific instructions to cool his body with ice at the moment of his death and to contact the CSC immediately. Instead they contacted Rosario, a man I had met at Russ’s house, who was listed as next of kin. Rosario thought cryonics was ridiculous, but he respected Russ’s wishes and fulfilled them the best he could.
    Paul was a nervous wreck. The hospital refused to cool Russ’s body without consent from the attending physician—an infuriating stance, because brain damage began shortly after death. Rapid cooling slowed the deterioration and, in theory, preserved the memory of the patient. I adored Russ and wanted to give him the best chance for a full recovery.
    I used my most authoritative tone, hoping to spur him into action: “Paul, contact Joseph Klockgether and ask him to meet you at the hospital. The hospital needs to release his body to Joseph. Also, bring along all Russ’s donation papers—they’re on file in my office.”
    â€œShould I also bring the CSC’s articles of incorporation?” he asked.
    I felt powerless so far from Los Angeles. I replied, “Bring them, but don’t go flashing them around.”
    Hospitals at that time were skittish of freezing bodies for later reanimation, but they were receptive to anatomical donations for medical research. If he approached the staff as a research organization, he had a better chance of receiving their assistance.
    They finally cooperated. Joseph took possession of Russ’s body, covered him with ice, and brought him to the mortuary. After the perfusion, his body was placed alongside Marie Sweet and Helen Kline. A total of six hours had elapsed between the time of Russ’s death and the start of his perfusion. Like Marie’s perfusion, the intervening time made this an imperfect operation. If Russ ever opened his eyes, he would likely have memory loss, but his suspension was still considered viable.
    The day I returned from San Francisco, I contacted Rosario Coco. Russ had made Rosario executor of his estate, and I was anxious to learn the financial arrangements for his suspension. I knew Russ had impeccable records and documentation; no individual was more prepared for cryonic suspension. However, there was still the enormously important matter of financial arrangements.
    Russ had told me he had a substantial bank balance. Although it didn’t cost more to keep him in temporary storage with Marie and Helen, we couldn’t sustain them forever—we desperately needed funding for a permanent storage facility. Russ knew our needs, knew our limitations, and surely had left sufficient funds to finally accomplish the