Transcript of 354: Mistakes Were Made

Okay, this just in. People don't like to admit it when they mess up. It's true for little kids, true for adults, and maybe especially true for politicians. The rare instances where politicians do apologize, you know how it goes. It's usually the kind of insincere, "I regret the error, I meant no harm" kind of thing. I remember a classic from the Prime Minister of Hong Kong years ago. After 2 million people took to the street to protest how cozy she was with mainland China. As a chief executive, she said, "I still have more to learn and to do better to balance diverse interests and listen to people from all walks of life." Just imagine for a second your partner or your spouse saying something like that to you, like with that tone. Like, you would not feel reassured that they were really sorry. Okay, so years ago, I was interviewing this guy about something else completely, and somehow we got into the subject of this whole apology business. And the guy has two daughters. They were both around 13 years old back then. And he told me that whenever one of his daughters does something to the other and he tells them to apologize, you know, as their parent, usually the apology is fake.

Just pro forma, fake, the kid version of the politician's non-apology apology. And what do you do with that?

'Cause how do you make somebody actually feel sorry for something they don't feel sorry for? You know, I mean, there they are and you're like, "Say you're sorry, say it like you mean it." And they don't mean it. They're not gonna. They don't yet have the empathy. You know, trying to explain to one of them, "Look, the way your sister feels is they go through life, they share with you, and then when you aren't generous with them, that makes them, you know, you're trying to explain it like this, and you can see the look on their eye like this cold, steely look. You know, like, "I hear what you're saying. I hear your little fable. I'm just not buying it." You know? And I don't know, they'll do lip service to it. They'll kind of sigh and shrug and sort of, in a sense, allow that perhaps that's the case. And then we take another shot at the apology.

But as a parent, don't you feel like, "Well, okay, if all I'm going to get is lip service, at least I'm going to get the lip service.

At least they recognize a moral code." Even if your heart's not in this, I want to watch you go through the motions. This is what people do when they really are sorry.

See, but that makes me feel more sympathetic to politicians or to this act which actually usually fills me with contempt. I feel like, well, at least the politician is pretending and acknowledging, yes, there is a moral code. They don't feel sorry, but they'll acknowledge that someone should feel sorry. And I feel like, well, if that's what we're going to get out of our politicians, well, okay, I guess. I guess it's not what I want, but I can kind of live with that.

Yeah.

I just want to jump in and say here, this conversation happened years ago. This was back in 2008. Today's show is a rerun. This was so long ago that we talked about this, the politicians actually still felt obliged to apologize when they screwed up. Sometimes anyway. Like back when we recorded this, I remember Barack Obama had just apologized for some remark that he made about small-town America, and Hillary Clinton had just apologized for saying she flew into Bosnia under sniper fire. You remember this? Did not happen. It was a different time. Not like today, when the president does stuff like, you know, posting a photo of himself as Jesus Christ. Or remember when he posted a video of the Obamas as apes? And lots of people called on him to apologize. But of course, that's the last thing he'd ever do. It was nice when they used to say, "I screwed up. Sorry." Even if it was insincere. I don't know, it said that there are things that people just shouldn't do. I agree.

Well, you know, that's making me, I don't know if you're familiar with all the details of that Bible story about David and Bathsheba, you know? And it's almost this funny modern politics story, right?

No, I don't know this one.

Okay, well, so here's King David, powerful king of Israel, and he basically commits adultery in office. He sees a woman that he can have because of his power, who's not his wife, and arranges her to come to the palace and has his way with her. And then the story's going to break, and her husband's going to find out. And he, in a very modern way, tries to quell the story, quash it, before it gets out. He has her husband sent to the front lines of battle where he gets killed. He does everything he can to hope that he can just actually hide it. He does not feel sorry about it, and he really digs himself in deep. And time goes on, and the prophet becomes aware of this, you know, divinely, and comes to confront David on it. And what does he do? He tells him a story. He gets him engaged in this little fable about somebody who has a pet lamb, a poor man with a pet lamb that he loves like a pet, and that a rich man goes in and gets that lamb and prepares it for a meal. Because of his power, he's able to— the poor man's like a serf who lives on his land.

So the rich man's just like, "Hey, I'm taking that." Yeah, because everything you have is mine. So it's this really awful thing of something that someone else valued very highly was valued very low by the rich man just because of his power. But Nathan's not telling him the story like it's a fable. He's telling him like, "This is happening in your kingdom. What are you going to do about it?" David gets all enraged. On behalf of the victim and says, "Bring him here, we're gonna do justice on him. We're gonna see this done right. We're gonna bring that rich man here and we're gonna punish him to the full extent of the law." And so David is like demanding justice for the perpetrator. And the prophet looks at him and says, "You are the man." And that does it. Then David really gets it and he comes apart, you know, and he has a very genuine apology and repentance. I mean, but he does really end up paying for it. And he's a much better king afterward.

I wonder if you could sit down with politicians today like that.

I don't know. You'd have to do something like that maybe. Sit them down, tell them that story, and then say, "You are the man." Well, from WBEZ Chicago, it's This American Life.

Today on our program, mistakes. Mistakes were made. Stories of people apologizing in that way that amounts to not apologizing at all, not accepting responsibility for the things they've done. Our show today in two acts. Act 1: You're cold as ice. Act 2: You're willing to sacrifice our love. Stay with us. This American Life, Act 1: You're Cold as Ice. So many scientific advances begin with amateurs, with amateur enthusiasts. Or is that enthusiasts? Whatever. I'm talking about people who form little groups to explore new scientific ideas like robots or computers or just whatever. This story is about a group like that and the guy who led them. Sam Shaw tells the story.

It was the 1960s, the decade of the first heart transplant and the first working laser. New antibiotics gave the Surgeon General such a jolt of confidence, he announced to Congress that the time had come, and I quote, "to close the book on infectious diseases." It was against this backdrop of high-flying optimism that a Michigan college professor named Robert Ettinger wrote a book posing a simple question: What if death itself was just another disease, generally fatal, but not necessarily incurable? His theory went like this: if you could freeze somebody at the exact moment of clinical death, maybe, just maybe, in 50 years or 100 years or 1,000, the doctors of the future could bring him back to life. This was cryonics, or cryonic suspension, and groups of enthusiasts began to spring up here and there, which is how Bob Nelson got involved.

I was on the freeway in the traffic jam chan, very common here in California.

And, uh, I came on, on the radio that there was going to be the first meeting of the suspended animation group at, uh, Helen Klein's house. And I remember going there thinking that I'm probably not going to be allowed in because I'm not a scientist, you know, but at least I'll get to see some of the scientists. And, uh, I went in, I was allowed in, and I came out, voted president, you No.

Bob had no medical or scientific training whatsoever. Hadn't even finished high school. He was a 30-year-old TV repairman with a wife and 3 kids. But he was charming. The kind of charm where you like him because he lets you know in 100 ways that he likes you. After a few hours with him, he's hugging you goodbye. And Bob sincerely believed that cryonics was gonna save millions of lives. And that belief was infectious. He did some press, local TV and radio. Turned out he was a really good salesman.

And it did, it took off like a cyclone. It was stunning. I remember once going into a restaurant and I was at the urinal and I overheard two guys talking saying, "You know who that is? That's the guy that freezes people." And the other guy said, "Why does he do that?" You know? And I thought, it is just, Bizarre to be in that situation where you're famous for something that you don't know quite how it happened, you know?

The members of Bob's group weren't experts. They were just fans of an idea. As you'd expect, many were older people, some of them sick and thinking about their own deaths. They set up a nonprofit, the Cryonic Society of California, and before long, they drafted a lineup of scientific advisors. At this point, nobody had actually been frozen yet, and the scientists set one condition for their participation: that nobody try, not yet. They wanted to take things slow, conduct research, publish papers, and that was fine with Bob until he got a call from the son of a psychology professor who was dying of cancer, a man who couldn't wait for the research to pan out. His name was James Bedford. Dr. Bedford wanted to be frozen, and he wondered if the Cryonics Society could help him. So Bob says he got on the phone with the godfather of the movement.

Well, I called Robert Ettinger that night, and I told him what had happened, and he said, "Oh my God, this is the biggest thing that's happened in the cryonics program." And so Ettinger said, "We need to go ahead and do it." And I said, "But we'll lose the scientific advisory council." He said, "Maybe not all of them, and if we do, we'll get them again." He said, "There's nothing that will push the program of cryonics forward than the freezing of the first man." Were you right?

Did you lose them?

Absolutely. Lost every one of them the next day.

So Bob assembled a team of doctors to carry out the freezing. Though when Dr. Bedford died on January 12, 1967, they were all caught off guard. Dr. Bedford's nurse had to run up and down the block collecting ice from the home freezers of neighbors. Cryonics was still just a theory, and the proceedings had the slightly manic quality of a local theater production forced to open a couple of weeks early. A half a year later, when a member of their own group turned up at the morgue wearing a medical bracelet saying she was supposed to be frozen, Bob wasn't much better prepared. Her name was Marie Sweet. And among the things she left when she died, there was a photograph someone had taken of her 27 years earlier, along with a handwritten message. It said, "This is as I wish to be restored." Bob called a couple student embalmers with access to equipment at the mortuary college, and they performed the freezing the only place they could: in the Cryonic Society office, on two desks pushed together and covered with a sheet.

I was a nervous wreck because, you know, I'm thinking, I don't know how many violations I'm committing here. You know, for example, a dead body legally can only be moved by a mortician. And then, you know, I had no idea if I was committing any violations by having the body up in our offices and putting her in ice there and then carrying her down the stairs. It was all just really peculiar.

One challenge with cryonics is that the freezing process itself can do a lot of damage to the body. Living cells are full of water, and when water freezes, it expands. Like a house in winter where the pipes burst. To minimize the damage, Bob and his team replaced the blood with special chemicals, a process called perfusion. Meanwhile, they packed ice around the head and body. A lot of ice. The goal was to get Marie into a giant stainless steel container cooled by liquid nitrogen. A cryonics buff in Arizona had started building capsules for exactly this purpose. That's where Dr. Bedford ended up, sent there by his son after the first freezing. But it wasn't clear where to send Marie. The Cryonics Society had no place to keep a frozen body. For all they knew, centuries might pass before she could be thawed out and brought back to life. Which is to say they needed someplace really permanent. That was going to cost a lot of money. Marie Sweet's husband managed to scrape together a few hundred dollars. That's it. And the society was broke. What the society did have was a lot of enthusiastic members, all of them hoping to be suspended.

Bob figured he'd let them decide whether to keep Marie frozen. It wasn't a very tough room.

They all said, "Yeah, yeah, go ahead, Bob. Yeah, go ahead." "Oh, okay." So, you know, I should have said, well, is anybody going to help here? Or, you know, is it just me? And it turned out it was just me. And then it got to the point where I began to realize that this was me. I had the power, the decision to say, okay, we're going to give up on Marie, which we should have done in hindsight, you know. But I kept thinking that It's gonna work. So it just seemed that it was worth going just a little bit further. I never intended with Marie Sweet to forever keep her in preservation at my own expense. No, I just felt for a while to see what happened next.

This very reasonable position led Bob into a lot of very unreasonable decisions over the next few years, decisions he's still explaining decades later. And what happened next is that another member of the society died.

Now, Helen Klein, let me preface by saying, was for me very special. This was the lady that introduced me to the concept of cryonics. She was the one that had that first meeting. She just somehow put a spell on me, you know. I just loved her.

The Society already had one body on its hands and no real plan of action. Like Marie Sweet, Helen Cline had died more or less penniless, leaving no funds to pay for a proper cryonic suspension. But the truth is, Bob liked these people, and he didn't want to let them down. And who knew? Maybe cryonics would be huge, and there'd be money in it someday. Once again, Bob put the question to the group, and once again, they all agreed their friend deserved a shot at a second life. So Helen Cline followed Maurice Sweet to a mortuary in the city of Buena Park, where Bob had jerry-rigged a temporary storage container, basically a wooden box lined with polyurethane.

Actually, what the wooden box is, is that when they ship a casket, it's the outer box, the wooden box that they ship them in. And we would put Styrofoam on the sides and on the top, and they make excellent refrigeration units.

In other words, a giant cooler filled with a lot of dry ice. The problem was dry ice is expensive, so we made what seemed like a simple decision at the time.

We had a container with a lady in dry ice already. Didn't cost any more to Put this little lady in there. Once we put Helen Cline in, she was a tiny little thing, and so was Marie.

Maintaining the cooler was a big job, but Bob didn't really see an alternative. Every week or so, he put hundreds of pounds of dry ice in the backseat of his little vintage Porsche and drove 2 hours from Woodland Hills to the mortuary in Buena Park where the bodies were stored. Not in some state-of-the-art permanent facility, remember. Here's Joe Klockether, the mortician at the facility.

It was in the garage that I had them. So I have to say the storage facility, because when you say storage facility, you think of something much neater. But it was the garage. But it didn't make any difference really, except that, "Oh, you kept them in a garage?" You know, that doesn't sound good. But yeah, I was anxious to get them out of here. Bob, come on, let's, you know, I gotta use my garage. I got things I wanna do, you know, I don't wanna keep doing this here. And I don't wanna play around with the health department. See, there's a term, temporary storage. They don't really clarify what temporary means, but you or I know temporary doesn't mean like forever. Temporary, you know, not, you know, something should be down the road. You should have something, kind of a date.

It was at this point, with Bob dodging Joe Klockether and Joe Klockether dodging the health department, that a third member of the society died unexpectedly. Russ Stanley, a man in a position to solve all of Bob's problems.

Russ Stanley used to call me at home every night and drive me nuts on the telephone for an hour, sometimes 2 hours. I couldn't get rid of him, telling me about every little thing that happened everywhere in the country about cryonics. To him, there was nothing else in life but cryonics. And assuring me always that when he died, the society would be in good shape. Russ used to always say, "I'm loaded. I own my own house." So I expected him to leave a couple hundred thousand dollars or something.

But had he left that much money?

He left his money to his next-door neighbor, who was his ex-lover, a Mr. Koko. Mr. Koko hated cryonics. So he called me about 3 or 4 days after we had dressed Russ in dry— we put him in the container too. So now we get 3 people in this dry ice container. It was big. I couldn't put any more in there. But I figured that, well, this was going to save the day. But Mr.

Koko said, "Rush Stanley directed me to give the Cryonics Society $5,000 now and $5,000 in 3 months." It was enough money at least to solve Bob's most pressing problem, to get a legal place to store the frozen bodies he was keeping in the garage. So he bought a plot of land and built a vault in a cemetery in Chatsworth, 30 miles north of LA, a 15 by 20 room dug like a bunker into a gently sloping hillside. Now all he needed were stainless steel capsules to hold the bodies into perpetuity.

But as luck would have it, we got a call from Mrs. Bowers.

Mrs. Marie Bowers was a housewife from Detroit. A few years back, her father had died and she'd arranged to have him frozen by Ed Hope, the same guy who was storing Dr. Bedford in Phoenix, Arizona. Her father had spent a year and a half there in a one-man capsule the size of a standard water heater. Now, as it turned out, Marie was in a fix of her own.

She couldn't pay the storage that Ed Hope was charging. She couldn't pay the liquid nitrogen. And she says, "I owe him $1,500." And her exact words, she says, "He threatened to kick the effin' capsule out into the street." So she called me and I went, wait, well, hmm, boy, if I could put a couple of people in that capsule, if I could get them all in there— I didn't know if 4 people would fit in one capsule, you know— boy, would that solve my problem, and that would solve her problem. And again, that, that's probably the only thing that I that I am somewhat, um, uh, ashamed about, that I didn't tell her that, you know, that I was going to put 3, 3 more people in there.

Why, why didn't you tell her?

Uh, I don't know, probably fear, you know.

Were you afraid? Was there a part of you that was like nervous if you did tell her that she you know, she might not go for it?

I, I didn't— I wasn't worried about that because she had no alternative. She had nowhere else to go.

So why not tell her? What's the risk?

Well, I, I didn't— I, I didn't think it was necessary to burden her with that. The complex problem of, uh, you know, her— of her dad being, you know, coupled with other people It might have been a problem for her. I don't know. Maybe it wouldn't have been.

The capsule arrived at the mortuary in Buena Park in the spring of 1969, and Bob was there to greet it. A cryonic container is basically a giant thermos—one steel tube inside another, with a vacuum in between. So long as you added liquid nitrogen once every few months, the tank stayed really cold. These containers weren't designed to be opened and shut again, so when the time came to add the extra bodies, Bob had to improvise. He drained the liquid nitrogen and had a welder open the capsule with a blowtorch. They spent most of the night unsealing the tank and arranging the bodies, which they wrapped head to toe in Mylar. Joe Klockether was there too.

Here again, I'm just kind of helping them because it's here, you know. I'm curious too. Anybody would be curious just to see.

Uh, I was feeling excited and nervous because the question was, would we be able to, um, you know, to orchestrate the arrangement of these bodies inside that container successfully? Well, first of all, you see how much room was in there.

Yeah, just to move because of the configuration of the container. Well, it was round, of course, but, uh, just to get it to fit right. You know, it's— these people were frozen, and when they were frozen, it might have been— it could have been maybe an elbow out, so you might have turned them another way to get the other one to slide beside them. I mean, it was— oh, it was cramped. Let's put it— yeah, it was cramped.

Had to have gloves on because the, um, the body is like steel, and, and, you know, 300 degrees below zero, it's like holding a a pot that's 300 degrees above zero, you know. It's just— you can't do it. And it took probably a couple of hours to get them so that everyone was, you know, comfortably arranged.

Then they sealed the container back up. It was that simple. Bob told 2 confidants about the welder and the 4 bodies in the tank. Otherwise, he kept it a secret. He'd done what he felt he had to do. And for the moment, what he felt was relief. He'd steered the car back onto the road, secured a working capsule for the 4 people in his care and a legal vault to keep it in. From here on out, he'd be practical and businesslike. No more soft-hearted exceptions. No more pro bono freezings. But the capsule Bob had pinned his hopes on needed round-the-clock attention. When you're dealing with equipment that's supposed to last hundreds of years, you want the kind of engineering that goes into building a space capsule. This was not that.

We had to keep a pump, an electronic pump, pulling the vacuum 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. At Chatsworth, the temperatures got up to over 100, 110 sometimes, and that was death to these vacuum pumps. They couldn't take that heat. The pumps would burn out and need to be replaced, and it just got worse and worse and worse. I was there, I would say, virtually every day.

After Bob opened up the tank, it was never quite the same. The vacuum was shot, and the liquid nitrogen would boil away to nothing. Bob was constantly refilling the tank with coolant at a few hundred bucks a pop. Sometimes he wrote checks from his personal bank account. Sometimes the checks would bounce. Meanwhile, he was flying around the country giving lectures, showing off artists' renderings of the futuristic cryonics facility he planned to build, appearing on radio and TV talk shows. Regis Philbin, Phil Donahue.

What exactly is the perfusion process? The perfusion process—

Here he is on a local LA newscast.

—protecting the patient biologically for the cold temperatures that he is gonna be exposed to. You ever seen or heard the movie Three Faces of Eve? You know, this is the two faces of Bob Nelson. The dual role of my life was to, on the one hand, be a spokesman for Cronix, and then on the other hand was my nightmare responsibility of keeping this antique capsule running. The publicity worked.

It attracted new people to be frozen, some of them with the ability to pay for it. Then in July of 1971, Bob got a call from a Canadian man named Guy, the father of a 7-year-old girl dying of a rare kidney cancer. One day, everything was fine. The next day, doctors were telling him his child had weeks to live. The way Guy saw it, it didn't matter if cryonics was a long shot. Bob Nelson presented the only slim hope his daughter had left. Guy didn't have a lot of money, but he managed to fly Geneviève to California, where he got her admitted to a children's hospital. Bob remembers meeting her there.

She was sitting on the bed, and her dad was with her. And she always had the expression of— so sad. So, so sad. Because she knew how sick she was. She knew she was dying, and she didn't want to.

Did her parents talk to her about the idea of being frozen?

Yes, they did. And she didn't seem to have much of an opinion one way or the other because it still meant that she had to die. And she didn't want to leave her sisters and her family. She wanted to go back to school.

Bob knew he shouldn't be performing another free suspension, but he couldn't help it. He had a daughter of his own just a couple years older. He went to see Geneviève a lot. One day, she made a request.

Geneviève only spoke French, so the mother would interpret. And her mom said, "Mr. Nelson, Geneviève wants to ask you a question." So I said, "What?" And she said that I know where Disneyland was. And I said, "Yes, I do. Matter of fact, my buddy Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse." work there. And so she told Geneviève that, and Geneviève, ooh, like that, you know. And I said to her, Mom, why is— she says, the doctor said that it'd be okay for her to go because sitting here is not good for her, you know.

I said, I can't believe it.

So I said, tell Geneviève, could she be ready to go to Disneyland tomorrow morning? We went the next morning, picked up Geneviève, and drove to Disneyland. And we got her in a wheelchair and drove her, you know, pushed her around, and she got in the teacup and the different things with my young daughter. And then at one point she was in one of these little kid turtle, turtle game, I think it was. And her mom says, Mr. Nelson, Jean-Vieve wants to ask you another question. And I said, "Sure, what would that be?" And she said, "Would I learn French so that she could talk to me?" And I said, "I will do that just for you." For a little while, it looked like Geneviève was improving.

Then one morning, Bob was back at the hospital.

Guy was sitting on the bed and he was holding her.

And I stopped. I knew this was a sacred moment. So he looked up and he said, "Get the nurse. I think Geneviève has passed." And so I got the nurse, and sure enough, she had passed.

So he put her back on the bed, and then it was all business.

It was, you know, critically important to get her temperature down.

That's the most important thing about it.

Cryonic suspension is that once the heart stops, the temperature has got to drop.

Nothing is more important than that. They packed her in ice, put her in a— what's called a body bag. It's a plastic bag that they put ice on the bottom, and then they lay her on that and then totally cover her body with ice and put her on a gurney and put her in the hearse. Just so, within an hour and a half, she was on the mortuary table receiving a perfusion and having your temperature further lowered.

According to Bob, Guy hoped to raise $10,000 to pay for a capsule, but he just couldn't manage. He had a pile of medical bills and two other kids to worry about. So Bob found himself back in the same fix, short on funds with a couple of bodies in temporary dry ice storage. He did the only thing he knew how to do. In 1972, Bob arranged to take custody of a cryonics patient named Stephen Mandel, who'd been frozen and sealed in a capsule in New York. It was the Marie Bowers capsule all over again. He opened it up, added Geneviève and another woman he'd frozen, Mildred Harris, and welded it shut again. By now, the first capsule was breaking down more or less constantly, and Bob had hit a wall. The way he describes it, it's as if he was the captain of a sinking ship, throwing cargo over the side to stay afloat. He couldn't save them all, and so he'd come to a decision. He would let the first capsule fail. This much is clear: he kept it a secret. The second capsule was practically as bad as the first, constantly malfunctioning, boiling off liquid nitrogen.

But Bob kept it going. Then a few years later, he had to leave town for a week. He paid a groundskeeper $100 to babysit the capsule, and the pump broke. And when the groundskeeper called a company to fix it, they never showed.

They came back, um, drove up to the vault, looked at the capsule. There's a nozzle that comes out of the capsule that has steam visible. Because the liquid nitrogen is evaporating away. When I drove up and I looked, that steam wasn't there. So I just didn't want to acknowledge what that meant. But the test was to go and touch that pipe, and if it was cold, then there was some hope. That means that it was still cold inside. And then going through my mind, what if it's hot? What if those bodies have decomposed? So I walk up to the capsule, I put my finger on it, and it was like touching a hot frying pan. It was the most painful experience, emotional experience of my life. I had failed that little girl. I promised her dad, and, uh, that she was gone.

Bob says he immediately flew to Montreal to tell Geneviève's father in person.

In Montreal, though, is where this story really starts to get interesting. And that's coming up in a minute from Chicago Public Radio when our program continues. It's This American Life. I'm Ira Glass. Each week on our show, we choose a theme, bring you different kinds of stories on that theme. Today's program is a rerun. Mistakes were made. Sam Shaw's story about Bob Nelson continues. Bob has just discovered that his second freezing capsule has failed. Liquid nitrogen has leaked out. And he says the first person that he went to tell was the little girl, Geneviève's father.

So he met me at the airport in a little snack shop, coffee shop. He was right in my face instantly. "What happened?" And I tried to tell him as gently as I could. Then when he pressed me, "How many days? How long?" I said, "I don't know, 3, 4, 5. I don't know." And what he said just totally blew me away. He said, "Well, I guess we'll just have to start it up again and continue on." And I said, "Oh, okay." I think I should have fought it out with him right there, but I didn't. I turned around and walked away. Cowardly, I think. He was shook. He left, and I could see his face was red.

He was upset. Next, Bob says he flew to see Terry Harris, whose mother Mildred Harris was in the second capsule with Geneviève and whose father Gaylord was also in the vault.

And he met me at the airport and introduced me to his wife. I told him what happened and he just said, "Oh, well, did you fill it up again?" I said, "Yeah." So he essentially said the same thing that Guy said.

Did he understand what it meant?

It's almost like he didn't care, you know? I mean— No, no, let me take that back. Not that he didn't care. No, no, it was more like, "Oh well, far enough into the future, they'll be able to fix that too." A few days after Bob told me his story, I talked on the phone with Geneviève's father, Guy.

He was polite and, I must say, very patient with my questions, but he didn't want to be interviewed on the radio. The memory of Geneviève's death and suspension was just too painful. He said, a little ruefully, that the whole idea of cryonics might be a moot point anyway, given the state of the world. The way things were going, even if the science panned out, there might not be a future to return to. And then he told me something else. That meeting at the airport Bob remembers so vividly? Guy said it never happened. So next I contacted Terry Harris, and I told him Bob's version of what transpired. Terry, you know, as you know, Bob tells this very detailed story about coming to tell you that the capsule— Terry says Bob never told him about the failure of the capsule. He had to hear about it from an article in a California newspaper that his aunt sent him in Des Moines.

They said in the article that the machinery had, you know, broken down, and I just— it was just incredulous. I just couldn't believe it. So I called Bob, and he reassured me that everything was fine and the paper was just trying to generate sensational readership, you know, and So, I never saw him. I just talked to him on the phone at that point.

Right. So, there was never a time when Bob flew out and met with you at the airport?

No. That would have been, you know, the right and honorable thing to do. And I wish it had occurred, but it's just not accurate.

Terry Harris was in his early 20s when he met Bob Nelson. He'd lost both his parents in a span of 3 months, and cryonics had seemed like this great thing he could give them in return. He sometimes imagined what it would be like when they were all reunited as a family in some distant, dreamlike future. It gave him hope. And then everything had gone so wrong. So I called Bob and I told him about my conversations with Guy and Terry. He was shocked and he stuck to his story. Later that day, he sent me a long, pained email calling the situation a heart-wrenching predicament. He called Terry Harris a liar, but Guy was another matter. Bob said he was devastated that Guy didn't remember their talk in the Montreal airport. He wondered if it was possible that Guy had repressed the memory. Then I spoke to him a few days later, and he offered this take.

I would say this about that, that if Guy said that I never came to the airport in Montreal, then he's right. I have to concede that it's possible that what happened, because I've been mulling this over for the past few days, It's possible what I'm remembering is, you know, going through this scenario with him over the phone.

Yeah. I mean, when you talked about it, it sounded so vivid, you know, you remembered like being in the sandwich shop.

Yeah, yeah. Well, in my mind, you know, I must have been over it 1,000 times, what it was going to be like to face him, to talk to him. And it was just the horror of my life because it— You know, it just— so anyway, I have to agree that most likely I didn't go to Montreal.

To be clear, Guy says he never heard from Bob at all. No visit, no phone call, nothing. I'm just wondering if when you look at that memory that seems like it was a faulty memory, if it gives you any pause and makes you wonder whether there are other parts of this set of memories that you have that may also not be totally trustworthy.

Other parts, such as?

Well, such as Terry Harris.

No. Sam, you know, I'm never gonna budge one speck from that. You know, you need to believe what you need to believe, Sam. You know, I'm only telling you You know, I'm telling you what I— and there would be no reason for me to make up that I went to see Terry Harris and them. That's not part of the story. That isn't, you know, important to my story.

But don't you think that there might be a reason why it would be important for you to believe that you went out and had those conversations with them face-to-face?

You know, uh, how do you defend yourself? I don't know. How do you defend yourself against something that, um, you know, that's not true?

I don't know. What's clear is that Bob's convinced he did right by Terry and Guy. And Terry and Guy are equally convinced that he didn't. If it sounds like Bob is harder on Terry than he is on Guy, there's one more thing you have to understand. When the truth about the two failed capsules and the nine bodies in the vault finally came to light, when all those hard decisions Bob had made on the fly became soundbites on the 10 o'clock news, there wasn't just a public reckoning. There was a trial. Terry and his brother were two of the plaintiffs, and they won to the tune of $800,000. The half they actually collected came out of mortician Joe Clockether's malpractice insurance. In 1979, the Harris brothers flew out to California to meet an attorney who led them to the vault at Chatsworth along with a local TV news team. By that point, Bob had washed his hands of the Cryonics Society. He was dead broke and his marriage had fallen apart, and he just walked away. And for the first time, Terry saw the reality of his parents' situation with his own eyes.

Well, the door in the facility was made of steel, and it was then chained and padlocked closed. The chain was rusty, and there was grass growing around that door where before it wasn't. And our attorney bought— brought a pair of bolt cutters and removed that lock and chain and slid the door back and we went down and you could just see that, you know, there was pieces of equipment here and there and the capsule lid open and it was unbearable, just unbearable. And I was just, I was just numb, you know. Just numb. I, well, I couldn't, you know, look inside that capsule, but I just, you know, backed away when I realized that there were just, you know, remains inside. We had brought flowers, and so we laid them there by the capsule, and then And then I just went up the stairs and left. I felt guilty because I should have, you know, been there night and day, which of course isn't very realistic, but at the time I felt very guilty.

Here's the entrance. This is the management office over here. I mean, it looks identical to the day that I was here 40 years ago. This little shack was, was here. This chapel was exactly the same.

Bob and I drove out to the cemetery in Chatsworth. On a sunny afternoon in March. We spent about an hour wandering the grounds, Bob pointing out landmarks and citing names and dates like a breezy tour guide. He said it felt good to be back. Oakwood is a really beautiful spot, a rolling park surrounded by jagged sandstone hilltops. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers are buried there. And the cemetery staff will point you to the grave sites of a half dozen lesser stars. — but none of the groundskeepers we talked to had ever heard of a cryonics facility there. And really, it's no surprise. Where the vault used to be, there's just an empty swath of grass. No padlocked opening. No monument or plaque.

See where the ground rises up over here? This was— this is where the vault is. See where these— they've put two benches right here.

Bob says all but 2 of the people he froze are still sealed in the vault, now covered over with sod. But the cemetery management tells a different story. They say the bodies were all disinterred years ago. Which leaves one final question.

Again, Terry Harris. I have no idea where my parents are.

You have no idea where they're buried now? No.

No. The management of the cemetery said, "Well, they're gone." And I said, "Well, what do you mean gone?" And he said, "Well, that one day a big pickup truck came up there and disinterred them and took them away." And he said he didn't have any legal permit to do that. They didn't provide anything. Doesn't that sound outlandish to you?

This is where all Bob's secrets and lies about the bodies finally led, to Terry Harris making phone calls, writing letters, combing through legal documents. Somewhere, he figured, there had to be a record, a clue that would tell him what had become of his parents. He's never found it. Cryonics carried on without Bob Nelson. And all these years later, when people in the field tell Bob's story, they call it the Chatsworth disaster. On cryonics discussion boards, he's been labeled a murderer, though of course, all the people he supposedly killed were dead to begin with. When Bob talks about those years, he says he's gotten a bad rap. He genuinely seems to feel bad about failing Geneviève and her family and for dragging the mortician, Joe Klockether, through the trial. But just as emphatically, he'll tell you that his main mistake was caring too much, that the secrets he kept were necessary to keep the project going, and above all, that the people he froze had donated their bodies under the Anatomical Gift Act.

Which meant that they donated their body to the Cryonic Society of California. And according to my attorney, We could grind them up for hamburger if that's what we wanted to do. We were given the right by the state of California to, to carry on research and do whatever we wanted in the perfection of suspended animation. And so we, we just felt that, um, you know, there's no need to be telling other people You know, I mean, I could have just locked that capsule, that vault up, and not told anybody that we'd stopped putting liquid nitrogen in there. You know, I probably could have gone on till today. You know, but at some point I had to settle back down to reality.

Bob says a lot depends on your perspective. If the science of cryonics pans out, it'll be possible to look at Jeanne Viève and Mildred Harris and Helen Cline as casualties of progress, or as Bob calls them, frozen heroes. Bob's not a rich guy, but he's managed to save $28,000 to pay for his own freezing at the Cryonics Institute in Michigan. He thinks his odds of reanimation are pretty good. And in the end, that's the thing that sustains him. The hope that someday, in 50 years, or 100, or 1,000, he'll wake up in a world he barely recognizes. A world where Chatsworth wasn't a disaster, but the first imperfect battle in the war that saved us all.

Sam Shaw. He's the creator of the TV series Manhattan and Castle Rock. Bob Nelson published a memoir about his years in cryonics. It's called Freezing People Is Not Easy. As I said earlier, Today Show is a rerun. And years after we first ran this episode, Bob died. That was in June 2018. And as for his body, it took some time, but his family raised the money to honor his wishes. Bob is awaiting reanimation at the Cryonics Institute in Clinton Township, Michigan, alongside his hero, Robert Ettinger. His old friend and co-defendant, the mortician Joe Cockgether, oversaw his suspension. Act 2: You're willing to sacrifice our love. So one of our producers, Sean Cole, when we came up with this idea to do an episode about people who were apologizing without full fully apologizing. He put out this poem, which is basically that in a nutshell. In addition to making radio, Sean is a published poet.

So the poem's by William Carlos Williams. And it's a poem that's taught a lot in all sorts of poetry classes everywhere, and particularly elementary schools, which is where I heard about it. And the way it was taught to me was that it was an actual note that William Carlos Williams left or his wife, sort of, and I always sort of imagine like it's sitting there on the kitchen table waiting for her. Right. And it's called "This Is Just to Say." I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast. Forgive me, they were delicious, so sweet and so cold.

What's funny about the poem is that he never really apologizes.

He never apologizes. He says, "Forgive me," which is kind of a command. And so I feel like it's like, "Oh, you know, I ate the plums and that was a bad thing, but I'm not sorry I did it." You know?

It's interesting to me that it makes you mad.

The thing that really breaks my heart is that she was saving them. And when he says, "Probably saving them for breakfast," he knew she was saving them for breakfast. There's no probably about it.

They live together. Now, now, this is a poem that is often imitated. Imitated.

Spoofed by, by many a poet. It's kind of become a game among poets to, like, write a version of "This Is Just to Say." My favorite one is by a poet named Kenneth Koch. Okay, let's hear him. I chopped down the house that you had been saving to live in next summer. I am sorry, but it was morning and I had nothing to do, and its wooden beams were so inviting. Last evening we went dancing and I broke your leg. Forgive me, I was clumsy and I wanted you here in the wards where I am the doctor.

That story has everything, that last one.

It really does. It's an entire novel in 3 lines.

So my favorite of all the variations on this is written by a student named Andrew, maybe it's pronounced Vecchione, Vecchione, maybe. Vecchione, maybe. And could I ask you to read that? It's called "Sorry, But It Was Beautiful." Yeah.

Sorry, I took your money and burned it, but it looked like the world falling apart when it crackled and burned. So I think it was worth it. After all, you can't see the world fall apart every day.

That's the work of 6th grader Andrew Vecchione from a book by Kenneth Koch about teaching poetry to kids in which he has them write their own versions of "This Is Just to Say." The book is called Rose, Where Did You Get That Red? Vowell's most recent poetry anthology is called After These Messages. He also produces the podcast The Writer's Almond Brother. We asked some of our regular contributors to do their own variations on the poem. Here they are.

This is Just to Say by Sarah Vowell. I carved your name, not mine, into the arm of Dad's chair. Sorry you were punished, but the wood was so gummy and my knife was so sharp.

This is "Just to Say" by David Rakoff. At our wedding, I disappeared briefly to have sex with your sister up against the back of the Porto Sands. What can I say? The chardonnay was so fresh and cold, and I so full of love and a sense of family. And I said, "I'm sure one day we'll laugh about this." Well, by one day, I meant that day, and by we I meant me, and by laugh I meant laugh.

This is Just to Say by Starlee Kine. 1. I chose the other girl. I'm sorry. It's not just that I'm more attracted to her. It's also that she is more interesting. 2. I used your dog as an excuse to pick up girls at the dog park, which is especially tacky since I'm your boyfriend. Please forgive me. I'm really bad at being in a relationship, and I'm pretty sure I told you that when we first got together.

This is Just to Say by Jonathan Goldstein. This is just to say I have eaten the fruit of knowledge. But nothing happened. Not a word. No lightning or volcanoes. Not even a drop of rain. So I was just wondering—

are you there? This is "Just to Say" by Shalom Auslander. One. I'm sorry you're overweight and drinking and feeling like everything in your life is doomed to failure. But this is probably why Mom said I was her favorite. 2. It sucks, Little Doe, that I hit you with my car, but at least you weren't alive to watch the hunters shoot your children. 3. He was a troublemaker, okay, and didn't know when to shut up. Still, we never would have killed him if we'd known he was the Lord.

This is Just to Say by Heather O'Neill. Dear Mom, this is just to say I forgive you for eating all the plums, the apples, the pears, and even drinking the last of the orange juice. I forgive you for emptying Dad's bank account and for painting stars on our station wagon right before you got in and drove away. I forgive you for leaving us without even saying goodbye. Your plans were always so sweet, so delicious, and so cold.

So cold and I'm hurting. I've been frozen since our love was parted. The program was produced today by Sarah Koenig and myself, with Alex Blumberg, Jane Marie, Lisa Pollack, Robin Semian, Olga Shipp and Nancy Updike. Senior producer for today's show is Julie Snyder. Production help from Seth Lind. Music help today from Jessica Hopper. Additional help on today's rerun from Adrian Lilly, Molly Marcello, and Stowe Nelson. Thanks today to Dave Dickerson and Chris Gethert. David Rakoff, one of our longtime contributors, who wrote a variation of "This Is Just to Say" in that last act, he died back in 2012. He is not frozen, but his books are still out there. Our website, thisamericanlife.org. This American Life is delivered to public radio stations by PRX, the Public Radio Exchange. Thanks as always to our program's co-founder, Mr. Troy Malatia, who reminds you, don't mess with him.

I'm loaded. I own my own house. I'm Eric Glass.

Back next week with more stories of This American Life. So cool. Next week on the podcast of This American Life, if you're stuck in an ICE detention facility right now with no reliable way to communicate with the outside world, no money, how do you tell your loved ones where you are? You can yell over the massive walls to the people outside.

Okay.

Or—and not many people can do this—you can throw a bottle with a note.

I had chills, you know?

I was like, "That's insane." Hail Mary Passes. Next week on the podcast on your local public radio station.