Riding Rockets

I had missed a lot in those years, all in the name of career. How many times had I left for work with the kids asleep and returned after they were in bed for the night? How many evenings had there been no time to read to them or play with them because I had graduate school homework? How many birthdays had I missed? I didn’t want to count. I had been a good father but not a great one. I had missed a lot that was irretrievable. The thought bolstered my confidence in the decision to retire from NASA. I didn’t have many years left to build memories with my children and future grandchildren. I was forty-five years old—I was entering middle age. One glance in the mirror told me that. A proto-spare tire was faintly visible at my waist, and either my sink was going through puberty or my hair was thinning. I suspected the latter. I was only twenty-one years from the age of my dad’s death. I had only thirty years left in an average life span. Of course, with a shuttle launch pending, all of those years were hypothetical. L-2 days to launch might mean two days until my death. So I gathered in this memory of my children as young adults…strong, healthy, attractive, their eyes and hearts set on the distant horizons of their lives.

Finally, our time was up. I hugged and kissed the kids. As I embraced my mom, she handed me a note. It was Psalm 91:We live within the shadow of the Almighty, sheltered by the God who is above all gods…. Now you don’t need to be afraid of the dark any more, nor fear the dangers of the day; nor dread the plagues of darkness, nor disasters in the morning. I wasn’t afraid of the dark or plagues. It was the “disasters in the morning” I feared.

Mom also handed me a card she had prepared and reproduced and was passing out to guests who had come to watch the launch. It was a prayer to Our Lady of Space.Blessed Mary, Mother of our Savior and of mankind, watch over our men and women in space, and through your intercession, obtain for them protection from all harm and evil, grace to do God’s will, and the courage and strength to fulfill their mission for the honor and glory of God. Amen. Watch over the crew of STS-36.

That was my mom. She had the faith of ten people. Between her and Donna’s prayers I should have been bulletproof. I just hoped Mom, the papist, didn’t end up proselytizing to some Baptists in the family viewing area and find herself in a fistfight.

As they were climbing into the van for the ride back to the condo, Donna and Amy were wiping away tears. My mom, Pat, and Laura had their Pettigrew shields up. Their faces were pictures of worry, but they were dry-eyed.

Back at the crew quarters I went to the conference room to find that it had become a real bachelor pad. J.O., John, and Pepe had tossed money in the cash box, grabbed some beers, and were reviewing checklists while watching the Playboy Channel. I wondered how this was going to square with Our Lady of Space. Pepe’s EKG recorder was on the table. As part of a life-science experiment, which would continue in weightlessness, he had been wired for heart data for the past week. I was glad I didn’t have one. I could imagine what the docs would say when they saw my heartrate during one of my Prime Crew night terrors…Holy shit!They would never let me on the rocket. And I wasreally happy I didn’t have to wear a bowel sound monitor. In their efforts to solve the mystery of space nausea, experimenters had requested some astronauts wear a microphone taped to their gut and a recorder on their hip to catch all the wheezes, pops, growls, and gurgles in their intestines. When the monitors were carried on secret DOD missions, the tapes could not be released to NASA until a USAF security official listened to them to be certain they hadn’t captured a classified orbit discussion. That would be one heck of a job title to have on a résumé—bowel sound screener.

Pepe showed us his heart-activities log. The doctors had required him to record the time of every heart-affecting moment: bowel movements, meals, and each time he had intercourse. I noticed the “intercourse” column was blank. “Cheryl’s not giving you any, huh?”