The Ups and Downs of Being Dead (2 page)

Alex slipped his Smartphone out and held it up. “They knew
it was a matter of making the components smaller, but back then, they didn’t
know how.”

By now, the flight attendant had propped an elbow on the
seat in front of Alex. Robert swirled the ice in his empty glass, but she
didn’t take the hint.

She asked Alex, “How does making things smaller bring back
the dead?”

“First of all,” Alex pressed his palms together, “let’s stop
using the term dead. Our patients aren’t dead, they’re cryonically preserved.”

A woman who had tilted her seat back to get a peek at Alex
nodded along with the others.

“Okay.” Alex drummed his fingers against each other. “Let’s
talk about sperm.”

He chuckled when the attendant’s mouth dropped open.
“They’re like little robots programmed with incredible amounts of information,”
he said. “They have the DNA to build a human being, or at least half of one.
They know where they need to go, and they’re competitive enough to want to be
first. Once they reach their target, they know how to break through a barrier
and release this DNA. All we’re trying to do is create our own nano-robots that
will take the DNA of who you were, and build you again.”

* * *

Robert’s ice coffin was pulled from the back of the
ambulance. He stepped out behind the burly jock and followed as his remains
were rolled through a back entrance of the Cryonics Center. The jock pushed the
cart straight ahead into a state-of-the-art surgical room with a stainless
steel table and bright overhead lights.

Pausing for just a second, Robert glanced down the short
hallway to the lobby at the front of the center. Seated in the reception area
was an elderly woman who must have been close to 100 years old. Her face was a
mass of wrinkles, and her body appeared to have shrunk in on itself. Next to
her, a gray-haired man waited patiently. He must have been making arrangements
to have his mother preserved. And not a moment too soon.

The old woman raised her palm slightly, her mouth set in a
serene smile. Robert waved at her, then shook his head at the gaff before he
hustled into the surgical suite just as the doors fluttered shut.

Standing off to the side, he watched as staffers, dressed in
surgical gowns and masks, scurried about adjusting dials on machines and
checking monitors. It was like he’d just been wheeled into an emergency room
and only had seconds to live.

Two surgeons charged backwards into the room, their gloved
hands elevated to remain germ free. A technician aimed a glaring light on Robert’s
naked body, while a nurse swabbed his chest with disinfectant. Another
technician stuck temperature monitors under Robert’s arms, between his legs, on
the back of his neck. The quicker they got his body temperature lowered, the
better. Right now, Robert’s body was like a raw steak on the counter, going
bad.

Just like open-heart surgery, one of the surgeon made an
incision along the sternum, used a saw to cut through the bone, and cracked
open Robert’s chest. A tube was inserted into Robert’s aorta, another into the
vena cava leading from the top right atrium. The intention was to pump a
solution of balanced sugars and salts to flush out the body and cool it. Alex
Darden had called this the blood washout.

Moving in closer, Robert watched a steady red stream flow
through a clear tube down the side of the table and into a drain in the floor.
A nurse stepped to the side to pick-up an instrument and Robert tried to jump
out of her way. Her hand passed right through his stomach. He gasped, as though
it might hurt, but he felt nothing. And obviously, she didn’t feel anything
either because she didn’t suddenly call out or drop the clamp in her hand. She
had no idea Robert was standing there.

He thought again about the old woman in the lobby. It sure
seemed like she’d been waving at him. But that was impossible. No one else
could see him. He was just in limbo here, killing time until they put him in
the deep freeze. So, what was that wave all about?

He sidestepped over to the door and peeked out through a
small window, but the woman was gone. Shaking his head, he returned to the
action on the table, assuring himself that she had raised her palm, that’s all.
Maybe her son had said something to her and that was her reply.

The staff bustled about tidying up, throwing away bloody
gauze pads, collecting used instruments while they waited for the last of his
blood to drain away. Robert’s attempt to wring his hands was futile.

“Please don’t let this be a sick joke,” he mumbled.

* * *

At first, he’d done what any intelligent man would do when
the doctor folded his hands on his desk and quietly said, ‘You have cancer.’
Robert got a second opinion.

That noted oncologist laid it out in a way Robert could not
deny. Like an advertising campaign, the doctor presented images from an MRI and
pointed out the large mass in Robert’s liver. Then he produced colorful
brochures on the finest cancer treatment centers, pamphlets touting the latest
pharmaceuticals, and of course, the bar graphs and pie charts that estimated
how long Robert had to live.

For the first time in almost thirty years, Robert took the
rest of the day off. He struggled to get through the telephone conversation
with his secretary canceling appointments, rearranging meetings. By the time he
ended the call, Robert felt so weak he’d braced his arm on the roof of his car
and rested his forehead on the sleeve of his hand-tailored suit. Struggling for
breath, he was unable to even stop the drool that oozed out of his gaping mouth
and dribbled down the window of his Mercedes.

Stale exhaust fumes in the parking garage choked Robert, the
low clearance closed in on him. He was practically running when he came out
onto the open top level. The heat of the day washed over Robert, and his body
sagged. He lurched to the edge of the roof, and looked out over Atlanta, the
classic query drumming in his head. ‘Why me?’

When Amanda heard he was dying, she rushed home from her
shopping trip in New York. Robert was in his office, on the phone, when she
burst in, her cheeks flushed, her eyes aglow. If he had to describe her
expression in one word, it would have been
exuberant
.

Almost overnight, she transformed into a loving, sacrificing
wife who put everything on hold for him. She drove him to his chemo
appointments. She waited patiently outside the bathroom while he puked his guts
out, then helped him back to bed, tucking brand-new sheets under his chin.
Death sheets, he’d called them. He was certain she’d agonized over just the
right shade and design to go with cancer.

She volunteered for the American Cancer Society,
masquerading as a pillar of strength in front of other spouses of dying
partners. She even participated in one of those walks – Amanda, who probably
hadn’t worn a pair of sneakers since she was ten. And she never went anywhere without
that goofy pink ribbon pinned to her clothing.

Robert was sure the only reason she got so involved with the
cancer organization was to get first-hand information on how soon he could be
expected to croak. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on his millions.

Wouldn’t she be surprised?

* * *

“Running clear,” someone said through his surgical mask.

The blood washout was complete. Now came the tricky part.
The surgical team would pump a preservative through Robert’s heart and into his
body, so that every organ, every blood vessel, and most importantly, his brain
would be protected.

Water was the enemy. Alex had compared freezing liquid in
blood vessels to the hoses in old style automobile radiators. Before
anti-freeze, water was used in radiators to cool engines. But water molecules
are pushy little buggers. As the temperature drops, water molecules like to
congregate, squeezing other molecules aside. And as water turns to ice, it
expands. In a car, this expansion cracked radiators, and ripped rubber hoses
apart. In the body, freezing water created the same kind of havoc in blood
vessels and in the tissue of the brain.

Alex scoffed at a critic of cryonics who used the analogy of
frozen strawberries that turned to mush when thawed.

“That is certainly true, because of all the water in the
fruit,” Alex had told Robert. “But we are replacing most of the water with our
cryoprotectant. Your brain will not be mush when it is reanimated.”

* * *

“Don’t be nervous, Robert. It’s going very well.”

Jumping back from the surgical table, Robert glanced quickly
around the room. “What?”

The old lady he’d seen in the lobby stood a few feet away.
She raised her palm again for a wave. She looked even older up close. Her face
was a mass of wrinkles, as though someone had wadded up her skin and then tried
unsuccessfully to smooth it back over her skull. A slight woman, she stood
maybe five feet, with bird bones that poked out at her elbows and shoulders.
She reminded Robert of that little old lady who stepped up to the counter and
asked, “Where’s the beef?”

“Your procedure,” she said. “Everything’s happening just
like it should.”

His thoughts whirled. “You can see me?”

“Yes,” she nodded.

The gray-haired gentlemen from the lobby slipped up beside
the woman. He nodded, too. The wear and tear of age showed in his sagging
jowls. Liver spots dotted his face and arms.

“How do you know my name?” Robert asked.

Stepping forward, the man extended a hand, like he wanted to
shake.

“Sam Parker. This is Maggie Nelson. We’re here to help you
with your transition.”

Stunned, Robert mumbled, “My transition?”

“From the living to the dead,” Maggie said.

“But I’m not dead!” Robert protested. “I’m being
cryonically-preserved—”

Sam and Maggie both chuckled.

“That’s right,” Maggie assured him. “And a hundred years
from now, you’ll be right back out there, good as new.”

The harsh scream of a drill drew their attention to the
surgical team.

“Ah,” Sam said. “They’re starting the vitrification process.
That’s where they slowly replace the water in your body with the
cryoprotectant, the anti-freeze.”

“So I’ve been told,” Robert said.

“Since you picked the whole body preservation, it’ll take
close to three days for the fluid to get all the way to the tiniest
capillaries.”

“Didn’t you do whole body?” Robert asked.

“Nah. All they really need is the brain since that’s the
only organ that truly makes us who we are,” Sam said. “All the other organs,
tissue, bones and blood will be recreated from the DNA they get from my brain.”

“I don’t know,” Robert said, “The brain-only option gave me
the creeps. What if someone in the future decides it’ll be easier to just pop
my brain into an existing body? What if people become body donors? Or somebody
bumps off cousin Louie and sells his body on the black market to make a quick buck?”

“That will never happen,” Sam said, with a cocky bobble of
the head. “Most likely, your brain will be transplanted into a clone grown from
your DNA.”

“Alex didn’t tell me that,” Robert said.

“They didn’t tell me that either,” Maggie said. “I think the
cryonics people stay intentionally vague, because no one really knows how we’ll
be revived. But Sam follows all that technological stuff. He keeps us
informed.”

The surgeon finished drilling holes in Robert’s head.

“Geez,” Robert muttered. “They sure tear your body up. I
don’t think they’re going to sew my chest shut. Now I’ve got holes in my
skull.”

He wondered if he’d be able to part his hair after he was
revived and show someone the scars.

“The holes are necessary to monitor the brain for
fractures,” Sam said. “As your body temperature drops, hopefully your brain
will shrink slightly. They definitely don’t want swelling.”

Maggie stood next to Robert as two techs lifted his body and
lowered it into a special freezing chamber made of clear plastic. It was designed
with two ports on one side where a tech could reach in to make adjustments.

“By the time they’re finished,” she said, “You’re body
temperature will be at minus 190 degrees Celsius: the temperature of liquid
nitrogen.”

“And then I guess that’s it,” Robert said. “They’ll stick me
in one of those tanks and I’ll wake up some time in the future.”

The wrinkles on Maggie’s face got even deeper as she
squinched her cheeks. “Well, that’s not necessarily the case.”

“You aren’t going to go to sleep,” Sam told Robert. His
voice nearly chirped with enthusiasm, but behind the smile was something else.

“I’m not?” Robert turned to Maggie for a confirmation.

She shook her head. “I was frozen a year and a half ago.
Sam’s been around for almost three years.”

Panic washed over Robert. ““But they told me I’d go to sleep
and wake up in the future.”

“Yeah, well, surprise!” Sam said, raising his eyebrows.
“They told us the same thing.”

“You mean we just have to wait around in here for a hundred
years?”

“No, no, no,” Sam said, waving his hands. “We can go
anywhere we want now. That’s why we’re here. To show you all the cool things
you can do.”

Robert stared at the stainless steel doors. “I’m not going
to sleep?”

“No, my friend,” Sam said. “Not for a very long time.”

He tried to throw an arm over Robert’s shoulders in a show
of camaraderie, but the gesture was useless. Robert felt nothing.

“So what am I going to do?”

Maggie and Sam both laughed. Did they find his
question
amusing, or his hysteria?

“You can do anything, Robert.” Maggie motioned toward the
steel doors again. “Well, almost anything.”