Cryonics

It's Cool to be Dead

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Since the dawn of civilization, when the ambitious builders of the Tower of Babel dared to reach the heavens, humanity has been obsessed with the tantalizing prospect of controlling the very fabric of life and death. We've searched high and low, from the depths of the earth to the far reaches of the cosmos, for ways to create life from nothingness, resurrect the dead, upload our consciousness into the digital ether (a topic we've explored in another video, make sure to check it out), and extend our fleeting existence with mythical artefacts like the Fountain of Youth or the elusive Holy Grail. 

But today, we will explore the chilling world of cryonics - where cutting-edge technology has entered the race against the Grim Reaper himself. 

The basic premise of cryonics is simple, yet audacious: freeze a human body immediately after death, in the hope that someday, somehow, science will advance to the point where the icy remains can be thawed, restored, and brought back to life.

Like all things shrouded in mystery and lacking definitive proof, cryonics has captured the imagination of popular culture, often playing a starring role in tales of science fiction and speculative futures.

But while the concept has been bouncing around in the zeitgeist for quite some time, it wasn't until the 20th century that the necessary technologies for freezing test subjects (or brave volunteers or unwitting victims, depending on your perspective) finally emerged. And of course, someone needed to connect the dots between this lofty idea and a profitable business model. Enter Robert Ettinger, our story's unlikely hero (or villain?).

Born in 1918 in Atlantic City to a family of Jewish immigrants from Russia, Ettinger encountered the concept of cryonics at the tender age of 12, when he stumbled upon a science fiction story titled "The Jameson Satellite." In this peculiar tale, a professor on his deathbed launched himself into Earth's orbit, only to be discovered forty million years later by curious aliens who transplanted his brain into a mechanical body - allowing the professor to live out his days in a blissful, advanced alien society. 

This bizarre plot left an indelible mark on young Bob's impressionable mind, and he eagerly anticipated the day when scientists would invent something similar - a way to cheat death and live forever, even if it meant being resurrected by little green men.

The Birth of a Frozen Empire

As the years ticked by and Bob Ettinger grew older, the path to a bright future and eternal life remained frustratingly elusive. But on the eve of his fortieth birthday, a revelation struck him like a bolt of lightning: if he wanted to make his icy dreams a reality, he would have to take matters into his own frost-bitten hands.

Armed with nothing more than a directory of influential Americans and a burning desire to cheat death, Ettinger began penning letters to the country's elite, urging them to embrace the concept of cryonics and start freezing people immediately - including themselves. Surprisingly (or perhaps not), Bob's impassioned pleas fell on deaf ears, and his mailbox remained as empty as a cryogenic chamber.

Undeterred by the icy reception from America's upper crust, Ettinger decided to pivot his strategy and appeal to the masses. This time, his message struck a chord, resonating with ordinary folks who shared his dream of conquering death.

Now, it's worth noting that while Ettinger was well-educated in the realms of physics and mathematics, holding master's degrees in both subjects from Wayne University (where he also taught), his knowledge of biology and medicine was about as solid as a melting ice cube. This unfortunate gap in his expertise would go on to influence the practicality (or lack thereof) of his proposed ideas.

Initially, Ettinger suggested building rather primitive cryogenic chambers - essentially, digging a deep basement and lining it with cork tiles or, if the budget was tight, simply stuffing it with straw. The bodies of the deceased could then be unceremoniously stuffed inside, sprinkled with a generous helping of dry ice to maintain a suitably frosty temperature.

With the meticulous precision of a man who had never actually handled a corpse, Ettinger calculated the costs: storing a single body would run about $4 per day. But here's where things get interesting (and slightly morbid): if the summer was cool and the basement deep enough to pack the bodies in like sardines, significant savings could be achieved. Under such conditions, the cost of storing a body could plummet from $4 per day to a measly 10 cents - a bargain for those willing to spend eternity crammed cheek-to-jowl with their fellow frozen hopefuls.

As for the financials, Ettinger had it all figured out: before shuffling off this mortal coil, the future deceased would simply open a bank account, deposit a certain amount, and let the interest cover the daily supply of dry ice. It was a foolproof plan - assuming, of course, that the banks didn't collapse, the economy didn't tank, and the world didn't descend into a post-apocalyptic hellscape.

But Ettinger was a man of faith - faith in the power of cryonics to conquer death and faith in the inevitability of its widespread acceptance. He preached to his captivated listeners that it was only a matter of time before governments around the world would begin constructing special chambers for the mass freezing of the deceased, creating a veritable frozen empire of the dead.

Little did Ettinger know that his grand vision would set in motion a chain of events that would captivate the public's imagination, spark heated debates about the nature of life and death, and leave a trail of frozen bodies in its wake - all in the pursuit of a dream that might just be too good (and too cold) to be true.

A Frozen Palace for the Dead

With a fervor that bordered on obsession, Ettinger meticulously calculated every aspect of his cryonic vision down to the last penny. In 1963, he estimated that building a massive mausoleum capable of housing 6,500 bodies in Detroit would cost a cool million dollars - a figure that, ironically, didn't include the cost of the very equipment needed to keep the bodies cool.

You see, refrigeration equipment was expensive then, just as it is now, and Ettinger had his sights set on using not just primitive dry ice, or even the more advanced liquid nitrogen, but the crème de la crème of cryogenic coolants: liquid helium, which boasts a boiling point just 4 degrees above absolute zero - a temperature so cold that it makes a Michigan winter feel like a tropical paradise.

But ever the resourceful visionary, Robert had a few tricks up his sleeve to keep costs down. After all, the deceased wouldn't need fancy finishes or spacious accommodations - they'd be too busy being dead to appreciate such luxuries.

And the corridors inside the mausoleum could be narrow, allowing for a smaller building overall. With these cost-cutting measures in mind, Ettinger figured they could complete the project for a mere $3 million, maybe even $2 million if they really pinched their pennies.

Having addressed the financial challenges of the present, Ettinger then turned his attention to describing a bright, shining future - a world where billions of bodies would rise from their icy graves like a horde of frostbitten zombies, ready to take on the challenges of a new era.

In this utopian vision, society would flourish, abundance would be the norm, and all work would be carried out by loyal robot servants, freeing humanity to explore the vastness of the universe in sleek, state-of-the-art spaceships. The only thing left for the newly-thawed masses to grapple with would be moral dilemmas - the kind of quandaries that arise when you've cheated death and have all the time in the world to ponder life's big questions.

For instance, what if your beloved first wife died, and you had her frozen, only to remarry and have your second wife meet the same fate? And then, not to be left out, you decide to freeze yourself too. Now, imagine the awkwardness when all three of you are thawed out together in the distant future. Would it be ethical to live with two wives at once, like some sort of post-cryonic polygamist? These were the kinds of complex questions that Ettinger dedicated the rest of his book to, leaving no hypothetical scenario unexamined.

And of course, in the final chapters of his cryonic opus, Ettinger led his readers to one inevitable conclusion: everyone should give cryonics a try. After all, what if his brilliant ideas turned out to be right, and you really could be revived in the future? And if not, well, you've lost nothing - once you're dead, what difference does it make whether your body is buried six feet under or frozen in a high-tech mausoleum?

Ever the caring visionary, Ettinger urged his readers to flood every possible institution - from insurance companies to the President's office - with requests, demands, and pleas for cryonic support. He believed that if enough people made their voices heard, technological advancements would take a giant leap forward in just a decade, and within a century, scientists might learn to thaw, rejuvenate, and cure all diseases, effectively granting humanity the gift of eternal life.

But as with all grand visions, the road to cryonic immortality would be paved with challenges, setbacks, and the occasional frozen corpse. Would Ettinger's vision of a world where death is optional come to fruition, or would it remain a pipe dream - a fantasy as cold and lifeless as the bodies he hoped to one day revive?

The Frozen Elite

Despite the grandiose promises of eternal life in a utopian future, cryonics never quite captured the hearts and minds of the masses. But the proponents of this icy endeavor were nothing if not adaptable, quickly turning the public's apathy into a selling point.

"Our luxurious idea isn't for the average person," they proclaimed, "but for the elite. Only scientists, philosophers, and serious intellectuals with deep pockets can truly grasp the full depth and power of cryonics. Smart and wealthy individuals, join us!"

Of course, there was no need to pass any sort of exam or prove one's intellectual prowess to join the ranks of the cryonicists—one simply had to believe in Mr. Ettinger's vision and, perhaps more importantly, contribute financially to the cause.

But in promoting his groundbreaking idea, Ettinger made a critical error, one that would come back to haunt him like a frostbitten ghost. Much like Ron Hubbard with his ill-fated Dianetics movement, Ettinger failed to establish a clear hierarchy or secure patents for his cryonic technology. As a result, competitors began to emerge, offering identical services and vying for a slice of the lucrative cryonics pie.

Unlike Ettinger, however, Hubbard refused to accept this situation and promptly abandoned the unprofitable Dianetics. In a stroke of evil genius, he then invented Scientology, structuring it as a full-fledged religion named after himself, ensuring that no one could ever again threaten his profits. Despite his burning desire to declare himself a deity, Ettinger couldn't bring himself to follow in Hubbard's footsteps.

Consequently, the 1960s saw the rise of three different cryonics organizations in the U.S., each eager to freeze a body for a reasonable fee. Only one of these enterprising outfits manufactured its own thermally insulated and nitrogen-cooled capsules, while the others either purchased equipment from outside suppliers or, taking a page from Ettinger's book of cost-cutting measures, simply packed the corpses in dry ice and hoped for the best.

One particularly colorful character to emerge from this frozen fray was Robert Nelson, the enigmatic head of the California Cryonics Society. Nelson, a man with no formal higher education and a day job repairing televisions, became utterly obsessed with the idea of freezing someone after reading Ettinger's book. Determined to make his mark on the world of cryonics, Nelson scrimped and saved until he could afford a cryo-capsule of his very own.

And then, as if by some twist of fate, a volunteer appeared—psychology professor James Bedford. But when Professor Bedford finally shuffled off this mortal coil, Nelson's prized capsule had yet to be delivered. Undeterred, the intrepid cryonicist covered the professor's body in ice and stored it for several weeks in a friend's garage, like some sort of frozen turkey.

Once the capsule finally arrived, Nelson properly froze the body, only to have Professor Bedford's relatives swoop in, seize the body and the capsule, and transport them to their own undisclosed location. But Nelson, ever the optimist, refused to let this setback dampen his spirits.

He quickly devised a new scheme, one that would revolutionize the cryonics industry and leave his competitors out in the cold. At the time, cryonicists charged relatively little for the initial freezing process, but they imposed a monthly maintenance fee on the deceased's relatives for servicing the capsules and replenishing the liquid nitrogen. After a while, though, the relatives grew tired of spending money on a frozen corpse and started focusing on their own lives. As soon as the payments stopped, the cryo-patients were quickly turned back into ordinary corpses and sent to regular cemeteries.

Nelson, sensing an opportunity, decided to undercut the competition and soon acquired a capsule containing the already frozen body of Louis Nischo, whose relatives had opted to save money by switching from another company. Not content to stop there, Nelson went on to handle three more bodies on his own. Lacking the funds for new capsules, he froze the unfortunate trio using nothing more than dry ice. And with no dedicated facility to call his own, he stored the four cryo-patients at his friend's funeral home, like some sort of morbid sleepover party. For one of the unlucky souls, Nelson even went so far as to weld the capsule shut to ensure a tight seal, effectively creating a frozen tomb.

The cryo-patients "marinated" for a year until Nelson finally scraped together enough money to purchase a cemetery plot, where he buried them for the next decade. But in 1979, the long arm of the law finally caught up with the intrepid cryonicist.

Nelson was dragged into court on charges of fraud and causing emotional distress to the deceased's relatives. And while he managed to fend off the criminal charges, a pack of crafty lawyers descended upon him like vultures, picking his pockets clean and forcing him to exit the once-promising cryonics business for good.

Interestingly, Nelson is still alive today, and he still believes in the power of cryonics, holding out hope that he too will be frozen after his death. However, he hasn't specified whether he prefers the solitude of a single capsule or the communal experience of a spacious cryo-co-living arrangement.

The Business of Eternal Life

In the world of modern cryonics, the business of eternal life has evolved into a much more sophisticated operation, a far cry from the DIY days of Robert Nelson and his garage-bound corpses. Today's cryonics organizations are registered as research institutions, with their clients cleverly classified as body donors for scientific research. This legal framework provides a layer of protection against lawsuits, making it much more difficult for disgruntled relatives to take legal action, unlike the troubles that plagued Nelson.

But perhaps the most striking difference between the early days of cryonics and the modern era is the sheer cost of the procedure. Gone are the days of Robert Ettinger's proposed four-dollar fee for a chance at immortality. Today, simply being listed as a member of a cryonics organization comes with a hefty price tag.

At the Cryonics Institute, for example, would-be immortals must shell out a one-time fee of $1,250, while at Alcor, the cost of membership is a more manageable $55 per month. But don't let these prices fool you—these fees merely grant access to specialized literature and forums within the organization, a sort of cryonic country club for the elite.

The real cost of being immersed in liquid nitrogen, the holy grail of cryonics, is a different story altogether. Fees for cryonic preservation start at a cool $28,000 and can skyrocket from there, depending on the level of service and the whims of the organization.

Faced with these daunting sums, cryonics companies have devised a clever solution: simply take out a life insurance policy with the organization as the beneficiary. It's a win-win situation—the client gets the peace of mind of knowing they'll be frozen for all eternity, and the organization gets a tidy sum of money when the client finally kicks the bucket.

But there's a catch. If a person suffers a severe head injury, like having their skull crushed or pierced, they won't be frozen—after all, even the most optimistic cryonicists acknowledge that future technologies won't be able to fix that kind of damage. But here's the kicker: the insurance money will still go to the organization, ensuring that the funds don't go to waste. 

But the real money, the lifeblood of the cryonics industry, lies not in the occasional insurance payout, but in the trust funds. You see, the cost of the actual freezing process is just a small part of the total fee. The lion's share of the money goes into a trust, and the interest from these funds is meant to cover all operational costs: capsule maintenance, new doses of liquid nitrogen, and, of course, the modest salaries of the cryonics institute's staff.

In essence, each frozen body represents a perpetual stream of income, a macabre annuity that keeps on giving long after the client has been reduced to a frosty husk. Technically, the funds belong to the trust, but with a bit of creative accounting and financial sleight of hand, that distinction becomes little more than a legal fig leaf.

And so, as we stand in the shadow of Robert Ettinger's legacy, we find ourselves faced with a profound question: is the promise of eternal life worth the price of admission? Is the lure of immortality, the chance to wake up in a future where death has been conquered, worth the cost of being reduced to a frozen asset, a line item on a cryonics institute's balance sheet?

Perhaps the answer lies not in the cold, hard math of trust funds and insurance policies, but in the depths of the human heart. After all, who among us hasn't dreamed of cheating death, of living forever? Even the ancient Egyptians, with their grand pyramids held fast to the hope that someone, somewhere in the distant future, would bring them back to life.

Only time will tell. But one thing is certain: as long as there are those who fear the icy grip of death, there will be those who seek to cheat it, to buy their way into eternity, one frozen body at a time.