In 1928, Charles Lindberg had a spiritual crisis. One day while flying over Utah, he landed his

plane in the desert. He decided to camp there, rather than face the packs of reporters who would

hound him if he rented a hotel room. While lying in the sand, staring up at the stars, he thought, what am I doing with my life?

A year earlier, at age 25, Lindbergh had completed the first solo flight across the Atlantic Ocean.

He instantly became the most famous man on Earth. Four million people attended his ticker tape

parade in New York. Then, on a national

tour, 30 million more Americans attended lectures he gave, and Lindbergh hated every second of it.

He had not started flying to become a celebrity. Rather, he just loved tinkering with machines.

He often referred to his flights as scientific experiments.

So that night in Utah, he made a decision.

He had wanted to be a doctor as a child, but struggled in school and flunked out of college.

Now he would return to his first love and try medical research to help people. This decision involved

more than just personal fulfillment. Lindberg's wife had a sister named Elizabeth who had contracted

rheumatic fever during childhood. The disease damaged her heart, which could barely pump blood

afterward. Every year, she got weaker.

So Lindbergh decided to try and save her.

He would build a mechanical heart, a cardiac pump.

It seemed simple enough.

He had no idea what dark alleys this project would lead him down,

including a quest to make human beings immortal.

This is The Disappearing Spoon by Sam Keen, a topsy, turvy, sciencey history podcast, where footnotes become the real story.

After that night in the desert, Charles Lindbergh started asking doctors he knew for

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