Cryonic Man: A Paranormal Affair

Chapter 1

I BIT DOWN HARD ON the cold steel barrel of the Colt .38 to hold it steady in my trembling hands. A big eater, I never dreamed gun oil would end up on the menu. The bitter tang almost made me laugh through clenched teeth.

My finger tightened on the trigger. I shut my eyes, drew the hammer back, and pictured Emily’s face for the last time.

Would I hear the gunpowder explode before my lights went out? Terrified, my body went numb as I imagined the bullet tearing through my brain.

Click.

The sound sent me sprawling across the bed.

I checked the cylinders. There were .38 slugs in five of the six chambers. How could I forget that I always left a chamber empty? Maybe my subconscious mind wanted me to play a little Russian roulette, give me an unexpected thrill.

I made sure a slug was under the firing pin, put the barrel back into my mouth, and bit down hard again.

Before I closed my eyes, I saw a reflection of Emily’s portrait over the bed in the dresser mirror. Her face seemed to float above me like a disembodied spirit, her eyes accusing me of cowardliness.

I yanked the pistol from my mouth and shouted, ‘I’m no coward, Emily. I’m doing this to make it easier for you."

I shook with anger, but the reprieve gave me time to consider. It wouldn’t be too damn pleasant for Emily to find me in the bedroom with my head blown off. Maybe I should leave a note and take myself out somewhere else. Yeah, that was it; leave a note so she’d understand. Emily would blame herself if I didn’t tell her why I did it. I set the gun on the bedside table and tried to imagine what to say.

Dear Emily.

No, I couldn’t say Dear Emily, I’m going to kill myself.

To Whom It May Concern, I killed myself because. . .

That didn’t sound right, either.

What words might explain why a tough guy like me would commit suicide? How could I describe my lifelong fear, not of dying, but of becoming helpless? People on their way out, lying in bed, unable to wipe their own ass. I always swore that wouldn’t be me and figured if I became helpless, I’d find a way to end it all, quick.

As I opened the nightstand drawer where Emily kept pen and paper, the perfume of her stationery drifted up along with warm memories of her. They say a dying man’s life flashes through his mind and I grasped at my visions like a drowning man.

I crumpled a pillow under my head and tried to enjoy the memories while I worked up the courage to write a note and pull the trigger again.

Chapter 2

I LAY SLUMPED ON THE bed with the .38 in my hand, recalling the night about a month before when Emily insisted I go to the doctor. I’d suffered headaches for a couple of years but they’d been progressively getting worse. I told her after getting whacked in the head so many times since I’d taken up boxing as a kid, I was bound to have a few headaches now and then.

Well, you go get your whacked head checked, she’d said.

I figured my headaches were no big deal, but to make her happy, I went. Dr. Everett Dean, my family physician, ran a hundred tests on me – blood, echocardiogram, treadmill, you name it and he tested it. A week later I went back to hear the results.

When the nurse told me to go right in because Dr. Dean was waiting for me, I knew something was up. Usually I got stuck sitting in the waiting room, decorated by some pansy who loved flowers. The flowered rugs, wall-coverings, pictures, and furniture with flowered upholstery annoyed the heck out of me.

When the nurse ushered me to Dr. Dean’s office, the look on his careworn face said it all. I hoped his I lost my best friend look didn’t have anything to do with me. But I knew better. For a doctor and patient, we were pretty close. He delivered me twenty-six years before and was my family physician ever since.

Sit down, Jim.

I sat.

An even more heartbroken expression spread across Dr. Dean’s face. He reached over his desk and put his hand on mine. Situations like this make me regret becoming a doctor.

Alright Doc, let me have it. I can take it, you know that.

Dr. Dean’s eyes began to water. I wish I could give you some hope, Jim, but I believe telling my patients the truth is always the best policy. He lowered his head and wrote something on the clipboard he always carried. I don’t know what to do except come right out and tell you. You have only a short time left to live.

You’re joking, right? But I knew by the look on his face that he wasn’t. You know I’ve never been sick. How can I suddenly be knocking at death’s door?

I’m so sorry, Jim. Sometimes a person carries a primary benign neoplasm for several years and has no symptoms at all, or suffers only an occasional headache, like you. Dr. Bernard has more experience with tumors than anyone else at the clinic. I confirmed my suspicions with him. Our prognosis is the same.

The same as what?

More than likely, despite any treatment, you’ll pass away sooner rather than later.

What’s sooner mean, Doc?

Dr. Dean’s sad eyes softened even more. Within six months, max.

His words jolted me more than any blow I’d ever received in the ring. I ain’t gonna let no fucking tumor screw up my life. I’ve got too much going on to die now. Can’t you just cut the damn thing out?

Unfortunately, at this time, there’s nothing we can do. A brain tumor of this type, and its location, makes surgery impossible.

Come on, Doc. I only have headaches and now you’re telling me I’m dying, right before I win the championship?

Dr. Dean’s eyes pleaded with me. Do you want me to call your wife? Maybe it would be easier for you if I told her.

No! Don’t tell her anything. I’ll do it myself. I have a big fight coming up in a few weeks.

You’re done fighting, Jim. Try to enjoy the time you have left with your family.

I ain’t done ‘til the day I die. You should know that. . . If this tumor will kill me, how come I never felt it when I took blows to the head?

Dr. Dean gazed at me thoughtfully. Do you remember when I treated you for a concussion two years ago?

Yeah, what about it?

Do you remember how the bump on the outside of your skull hurt but there was no pain inside your head? That’s because your brain has no nerve sensors in the meninges to feel and transmit pain signals.

Well, if I can’t feel pain, why can’t I fight?

It’s entirely up to you, but I can’t condone your doing so.

Condone? I don’t care, Doc. You know how I feel about stuff like this. We talked about how I’d rather die than live as an invalid.

But Jim, you won’t be an invalid. Your death will come quickly. Fighting might even speed your death up.

If I can’t fight, I may as well be dead.

I didn’t want to get into an argument with Dr. Dean, so I got up and left. On my way through the waiting room, I punched a hole through the big flower painted on the door.

I never once thought about dying before. In my prime, I’d recently won my twenty-eighth heavyweight pro boxing match. A victory in my next fight would put me in line for a championship fight. Money I anticipated earning would pay for a dream house to surprise Emily.

Six months! My gut churned in frustration when I thought of little Joe. He’d just turned five months old and I’d be dead before his first birthday. Not only that, Emily dreamed of having a sister for little Joe. It couldn’t happen now.

On the way home, I recalled what it was like hearing that a loved one was going to die soon. When my mutt Molly was a pup and I was twelve, I’d take her running every day. Because of running with her, I became inspired to start training to be a boxer. I kept jogging with Molly at my heels for ten years. When she no longer could keep up, I put her out to pasture to relax in her last dog days. That’s when I noticed the lump on her head and took her to the vet.

Could be a tumor or an osteoma, he’d said. Let’s do a biopsy and some X-rays. The bump was benign but he found a little shadow on her brain. We’re catching the brain tumor early, but at her age, she won’t beat it, he said. I’m sorry.

I couldn’t breathe when he told me. I wanted to bust out bawling, but remembered what I learned as a boy: Suffer any pain in silence. Only sissies show emotion. Keep your emotions locked up in your heart.

But Molly was my best friend and her death was the conduit that allowed my feelings to flow. Dogs ranked high on my list of things that were okay in this messed-up world.

When Molly couldn’t hold her bladder or her bowels any more, I carried her to the vet one last time. You’re right, son, it’s time to put her down, the vet said. He spread a blanket on an exam table and lay Molly down. Her eyes opened wide as she watched him take a needle from a cabinet.

I let the river of tears flow that I’d held back all my life. Molly, it’s my turn to sit and stay. You’re my buddy and I love you.

Her eyes shone at my words, but the delight in them froze into a blank stare.

The vet rubbed her head with compassion. She’s gone.

I cried all the way home like a goddamn sissy, but I didn’t care because I missed her so much. Where are you now, Molly? If there isn’t a heaven for dogs there shouldn’t be one for people.

I’d never told anyone how I cried over Molly’s death, but I knew if I told Emily that my time had come, she’d certainly cry too. A lot. How could I cause her so much pain?

The phone rang, jangling my thoughts. I looked at the bedside clock. An hour had flown past since the pistol’s hammer struck an empty chamber.

I picked up the phone. Yeah?

Jim, are you okay? Dr. Dean sounded excited.

Yeah, fine, great, I said flatly.

I’m sorry to intrude, but I’ve got some better news. By the way, I added the price of a new door and the installation to your bill.

I smiled sheepishly, knowing he said that to lighten the situation and it did make me feel better for an instant. Sorry, Doc.

After you left, I consulted Dr. Bernard again to see if there’s any experimental treatment that that might help.

Yeah, and?

Well, one thing came up. However, I question the viability of the procedure and maybe I shouldn’t even mention it.

You call me and say there may be hope, but maybe you shouldn’t tell me? Don’t give me that bullshit!

Dr. Dean remained silent for a moment. I was just wondering out loud. There’s a new procedure, but it’s pretty radical.

Spit it out, Doc.

Jim, please keep an open mind and remain calm so we can discuss this realistically.

Okay, I’m calm and my mind’s wide open. Now what in the hell are you talking about?

There’s a new science called cryonics. Not to be confused with cryogenics. Cryonics is –

Could you just get to the point, Doc? I don’t understand scientific stuff and I’ve got important things to take care of here. What does cryo-whatsis have to do with my tumor?

Jim, I’m trying to explain that cryonics is a technique that involves cooling legally dead people to liquid nitrogen temperature until physical decay essentially stops. The preservation process is performed in the hope that advanced scientific procedures will allow patients to be revived and restored to good health someday. A person held in such a state is called a cryopreserved patient. The medical community doesn’t regard the cryopreserved person as truly dead.

Oh, goody. Sounds like a sci-fi movie. The zombie fighter rises from the laboratory. . . You’re not holding out much hope here, Doc.

Dr. Dean cleared his throat. It’s the only hope you’ve got to preserve your life.

How in the hell do you preserve a corpse for that long?

Once you’re declared dead, the Cryonic Foundation technicians will pack you in ice and water until the preservation process is started. Then they replace your blood with cryoprotectant chemicals, like antifreeze, and slowly lower your body temperature until they can store you in liquid nitrogen. When science learns how to shrink brain tumors like yours and how to rejuvenate cryopreserved individuals, you’ll be revived, your tumor cured, and you’ll be able to live out your life.

That silenced me for a moment.

You’re right, Doc. That’s pretty damn radical.

Doctor Dean sighed. You asked me to help. Fact is, you’ll expire within six months. This procedure may give you a chance to live again, though in the future.

What did it matter what happened to my body after I died? I wouldn’t be around to find out, I hoped. What if I got preserved and still had feelings? I hated the cold worse than anything. What if my mind or spirit remained aware while my body was trapped in a tank full of nitrogen? Even worse, what if I was revived long after Emily and little Joe were gone?

I don’t know. I can see some problems down the road. If I go through with this cryonics stuff, will I have any feeling?

You’ll be legally dead before your head is cryonically preserved, Dr. Dean explained. Your mind will be a total blank when we start the process.

I was relieved to know I probably wouldn’t know or feel anything. No worse than being six feet under. Then I realized exactly what Dr. Dean had said.

My fucking head!? I need my entire body, Doc, you know that! I don’t want to end up some kinda patchwork Frankenstein. No way.

Dr. Dean was silent for a moment. Your long-term memory, personality, and identity are stored in the structures of the brain. Neuropreservation is more economical, and the premise is that your body is expendable and regeneration of it may be routine in the future. So far, cryopreservation hasn’t worked well with large mammals, but cryopreservation of single organs, such as kidneys and brains, has been successful.

No fucking way, Doc. It could take a thousand years to figure out how to regenerate an entire body. I’m an athlete. This plan is out of the question.

Dr. Dean sighed. Cell damage caused from freezing is one of the problems with cryopreservation of larger masses of tissue. The current process can keep your brain in good shape, but it’s a dice roll for your body, if they’ll even attempt it. . . I know this is a tough decision, Jim. If you decide not to try this procedure, all you have to look forward to is early death. If you decide to do it, one day you may live again. I only mention it because you’re young and should have a future ahead of you. And you can afford to try it. Some people can’t.

What the hell, I thought. Why not give it a shot?

Hearing you put it like that, go ahead and make the arrangements, I said. I’ll call my attorney, so he can check into the financial details and set aside some funds for Emily and little Joe. But I insist – and I want this in writing – I insist that they preserve my entire body. What have I got to lose? Nothing, basically. I’m as good as dead now and if they can’t revive me, I’m still dead, right?

Good thinking, Joe. And putting money away for your family’s future is an excellent idea.

Dr. Dean was right. May as well plan for a miracle. We had a little money tucked away already. Maybe I could win the championship before I croaked and leave a good nest egg as well as the insurance. Or maybe I’d be the comeback kid in a decade or two and get back on the championship track, start life over again with Emily and Joe.

After I hung up the phone, I began to wonder just what in the hell I was getting myself into. I swore I’d never be a guinea pig for the guys in the white coats. For all I knew, the CIA or somebody was experimenting with cryonically preserved bodies. I sure as hell didn’t want to get mixed up in something like that.

Then I remembered Dr. Dean’s reassurance about not feeling anything during the procedure. I may as well relax and spring for the experiment. I’d be dead anyway, so what the hell could anyone do to hurt me?

This cryonics stuff changed everything. I sure as hell would never live again if I blew my brains out.

Chapter 3

I PUT THE .38 COLT back in the closet, tore up my goodbye note, and went downstairs to the kitchen to pour myself a triple shot of bourbon from a bottle someone left behind after a family gathering. I downed the drink in one swallow and poured another. It felt weird to taste alcohol after that fucking gun oil, but I needed to relax.

I downed the second drink and that seemed to slow my racing thoughts. I tried to think logically. How could I nail the championship title before I died? I’d win if I put my mind to it. I needed help to deal with Emily and the cryonic thing, but didn’t know where to turn.

I heard the key turning in the front door. Emily and little Joe were coming home from their daily trip to the park. I dashed upstairs toward the bathroom.

We’re home, Jim, Emily sang out. Little Joe made some of his baby noises in the background.

I almost broke down at the sound of their voices. I couldn’t tell Emily. Not yet. I didn’t have the courage to watch her face dissolve into agony. I undressed, stepped into an ice-cold shower and began to shiver from the chill.

Think this is cold? Wait ‘til you get into one of those nitrogen tanks, I said out loud.

Feeling anything at all was a good thing because I’d soon be gone and probably never feel anything ever again. I let the needles of frigid water pummel me for a long time before I dried off and put on a flannel robe to go face Emily.

When I stepped back into the kitchen, Emily was feeding little Joe from a Gerber’s jar. He fussed in his high chair, the mashed peas smeared in green slashes across his lips and chin. I absorbed the domestic scene, the yellow and blue flowers on the wallpaper, the curve of Emily’s hip as she bent toward little Joe, and the way the chrome legs of the kitchen table and chairs reflected light against the floor. My heart caught in my throat because I wouldn’t be seeing much more of this. I stood behind Emily and kissed the back of her neck so I wouldn’t have to look at her when I lied and told her that Dr. Dean said everything was fine.

I spent a sleepless night and got up at 4 a.m., just an hour earlier than usual. I dressed for the gym, kissed Emily on the cheek, and went to little Joe’s room and kissed him too. He lay spread-eagled in his crib, his big fists clenched like a fighter, which made me wonder if he’d take after me. I hoped he’d have the good sense to use those hands in a better profession.

After a few hours at the gym, grueling hours of pushing myself to the limit, I couldn’t wait any longer to call the Cryonics Foundation. I took another cold shower to clear my head and picked up the phone at the gym’s front desk. Help answered unexpectedly in the form of Dr. Remus, the director of CF. He reassured me with his cheerful, uplifting outlook that the Foundation could take care of the cryonic procedure with minimal problems. He almost made dying and getting flash frozen like a bag of peas sound like an everyday occasion, nothing to worry about. He also knew when to be serious and how to get his point across, just like Dr. Dean.

Jim, you don’t have many choices, therefore your worries are limited. The best thing you can do for Emily and Joe is to assure their financial security.

Though his voice sounded somber, I imagined his eyes smiling with kindness. In the meantime, why don’t you take the wife on a holiday and enjoy the time you have left?

I’ll be going over our finances with my lawyer soon, I told him. Thanks to my insurance agent’s hard-sell tactics, I bought a half-million-dollar life insurance policy before I started having headaches. My family’s all set. But I need to know more about the financial arrangements for the cryonic procedure. And I need a contract to preserve my entire body, not just my brain.

What I didn’t tell him was that I agreed in principle about enjoying my remaining time, but that our views of enjoyment differed.

We went over the financial aspects of the procedure, including the years of storage and maintenance, the difficulties of preserving an entire body, and my chances of revival in the future.

You may have heard about the rash of recent cryonic suspension failures due either to lack of ongoing funds or caused by equipment breakdowns. If you convert part of your insurance funds into an annuity for the Cryonic Foundation, that will cover the entire cost in perpetuity, Dr. Remus said. "We do not, for example, store bodies at funeral homes, in vaults at cemeteries, or in family cellars as other organizations have done. Our storage facilities and capsules are state of the art, and our maintenance routines are carried out on a regular schedule.

As for your return to a normal state, it could be a few years, or thirty, or even a hundred, but it’s a certainty that scientists will one day perfect the process of resuscitating cryopreserved patients and using nanobots to reverse aging and to repair tissue damage. We can’t guarantee top-notch results for the cryogenic preservation of your entire body at this time, but I believe that your age and circumstances merit our best attempt. I’ll discuss your case with my colleagues and see if we can add a disclaimer to that effect in your contract. Whenever you’re ready to come in with your lawyer, I’ll give you a tour of the facilities and you can meet with our legal office.

I figure no one loses either way, Doctor. I’ve got one foot in the grave, so if there’s some screw-up with my procedure, maybe scientists can sort it out in the future. Otherwise, I’ll just stay dead, right? I’ll call my lawyer right now and have him get in touch with your people.

Jim, I think you’re absolutely right. The Cryonic Foundation will look forward to serving you on this groundbreaking adventure. Now, please, leave us with your worries. You go enjoy life.

As I drove home, I thought about the biggest joy in my life – in addition to spending time with my family – winning the world heavyweight boxing championship. I could do it in less than six months. The first step was to win the fight scheduled in two weeks. I could just keep training as usual and Emily wouldn’t suspect a thing. After winning that fight, I’d be the number one contender for the big one. Then I might be ready to talk to Emily. After all, the tumor hadn’t physically disabled me yet – headaches were my only symptom. I’d go on fighting until I lost or died.

After picking up some papers from Zoloti’s law office, I sat in the kitchen with a bourbon in hand, waiting for Emily to return from her walk, just like the day before. Although I still felt conflicted about withholding information from her, I wasn’t ready to face her devastation, either. Maybe I was a selfish oaf, but I swear my only motive was to make things easier for her.

She’d know something was bothering me and I tried to figure out what to say when she asked. I downed a second bourbon. I needed to make a decision, but when Emily came into the kitchen, I was still uncertain what to say.

She put little Joe in my lap and pecked me on the cheek. Jim, is something wrong? You’re holding something back. You’ve been awfully quiet.

Little Joe pounded at my forehead and pulled my hair as if to illustrate my dilemma – headaches, brain tumor, hard decisions.

No, really, I’m fine. Just mentally preparing myself for the next fight.

Come on, Jim, you can’t fool me.

I wanted to take her in my arms and tell her how much she and our boy meant to me, but if I did, the truth would pour out. So I said, To be honest, there is something.

Tell me.

Dr. Dean made a strange request yesterday.

Request. What kind of request? What did he ask you?

He asked me to help with a scientific experiment he’s involved with.

Emily’s face tightened. Don’t you dare volunteer! Doctors experiment on people and sometimes they end up debilitated in some way.

It’s no big deal. Just something they do after a person dies.

Emily’s face relaxed a bit, so I continued. Yeah, Dr. Dean says he’s working on a way to extend the human lifespan.

That’s a pretty lofty goal for a family doctor. How’s he planning to do that?

By preserving people after they die and reviving them.

That’s impossible, Jim. You know as well as I do that no one ever comes back from the dead.

Yeah, but he says that scientists are trying.

Well he’s not experimenting on you. Everybody dies, why does he need you?

Good question. How was I going to answer?

Guess it’s because he knows I’m going to be a champion, and if a boxing champion volunteers, then others will be sure to follow, I said, wincing inside at my lie.

Why can’t you donate some money to his cause and forget about volunteering?

You don’t understand, Emily. This is something I want to do.

Emily balled her hands into fists and placed them on her hips. You do? How selfish of you. Did you even stop to think how we bought cemetery plots side by side, so we’d be together forever? If you volunteer for this experiment, I’ll be alone after we pass on.

I promise I’ll be buried right beside you. Even if I volunteer, I have to die before I actually become part of the experiment, so if he gets enough people involved now, the experiment will probably be over by then.

Telling Emily so many lies made me sick. I felt like puking, but I couldn’t backtrack now that I’d gone this far.

Look, let’s not argue about this. I pulled the envelope with the medical power of attorney and the cryonic procedure form from the dining room table that Zoloti drew up after I called the Foundation. Here’s some papers you need to sign. Just do it and forget all about this conversation.

Jim! Forget it. Why do you think you can stand there and tell me you’re going to donate your body to some crackpot scheme and then order me to sign papers saying it’s okay?

She grabbed the envelope from my hand and threw it on the floor. Her concern overwhelmed me. I wanted to confess, but I could never admit I lied to her. I picked up the envelope and with little Joe tucked in one arm, I led her to the sofa. We need to talk seriously for a minute.

She looked at me with those blazing eyes and my guts twisted, thinking she must know I was lying to her.

Once I become champion, I said, we can take a long vacation, maybe a month-long cruise or even a trip around the world. I knew there might not be a cruise, maybe just a short vacation, but one lie led to another.

That would be wonderful, Jim. But no more talk about experiments, she said after I ran the vacation line on her. She kissed me hard, her lips opening to allow my tongue to explore their soft, sweet edges. When the kiss ended, we smiled shyly at one another, just like when we first started dating. We’d put romance on the back burner since Joe was born and I started seriously training with an eye on the championship.

I decided to try another direction. Honey, you know I’m in a dangerous profession, and God forbid.

Emily’s smile faded.

Don’t get upset, baby – this is just in case something ever does happen to me. It might be a good thing to have my body preserved at the Cryonic Foundation. That’s who Dr. Dean is working with.

She threw the envelope on the floor again and pulled away. I grabbed her by the arm. She looked at me a long time with tears in her eyes. Little Joe looked back and forth at our faces, confused.

What is it you’re not telling me, Jim?

I thought I wouldn’t have to lie to her again, but I looked her straight in the eye and gave her more crap. Of course, there isn’t anything I’m not telling you. You already know I’ll be leaving for training camp in the morning. Baby, please sign. You know damn well I’ll do anything I can to live a long, beautiful life with you. If I win the world championship, I can retire early, do something else. These papers are just like insurance, in case something bad happens.

If Emily knew how little time I had left, she wouldn’t allow us to be apart at all. At any rate, she either couldn’t resist my plea or knew I was more stubborn than she was. She finally signed, reluctantly at first, and then with a resolute flourish.

Vincent Zoloti, my attorney, came to the training camp at Cape Cod a few days later. I signed the payment agreements for the cryonic procedure and we reviewed my insurance policies to make sure Emily and Joe were named as the beneficiaries before I died.

Before I died! I couldn’t believe I sat there calmly discussing my impending death.

I arranged for the substantial purse from this upcoming fight to be held in a trust fund managed by Zoloti and his associates. If and when I was revived, and we both knew it was a big if, I’d have plenty of money to start my life over.

Look, Zoloti, I said, handing him a note, here’s what I want on my tombstone if they fail to revive me: ‘Jim Jackson, Heavyweight Boxing Champion of the World, born 1950, died 1976.’

I’ll make sure it’s at the top of the list, Jim, but what if you don’t win the championship before your time comes?

Then have my tombstone say I would have been the champ if it wasn’t for this fucking tumor.

Chapter 4

WHILE I SAT IN MY DRESSING room waiting to enter the ring, some sharp, flashing pains shot through my head. I did my best to ignore them. A fighter has to withstand pain or he’s worthless. Soon I wouldn’t have to worry about pain ever again, I thought glumly.

Hell, thinking about dying scared me, no, terrified me, but before I went, I wanted to ace my last two fights. There was no quitting as long as there was any breath left in me. I just wished the goddamn tumor had a face so I could punch the shit out of it. It didn’t, so I’d punch the shit out of my opponent instead.

Homicide Hank earned his unusual name because he’d almost killed several boxers with his unrelenting assaults. Built like a Renaissance statue, the young Italian fighter out of Boston’s North End was solid muscle from head to toe. But I knew his muscles were more for show than work and that his stamina wouldn’t match mine. He was tough,