Riding Rockets

I was selfishly consumed by the flight, and it weighed on the entire family. Why Donna didn’t just walk away from me in the final weeks was a miracle. On one occasion I arrived home to news that Pat had strep throat. “The flight surgeon wants you to come in for a throat swab, too.” It was no surprise that Donna had sought medical help at the surgeon’s office. The doctors also served as astronaut family physicians. But I was furious with her. Though I was feeling fine, I had no idea what a throat culture would reveal. Visions ofApollo 13 and Ken Mattingly’s removal from that mission because of an exposure to German measles aroused my paranoia to insane levels. I raged at her, “Goddammit, Donna, I’m ten days from leaving for KSC! This could screw me!” I made no inquiry of Pat’s condition. Donna had never met the man who was now in her face. Tears streamed down her cheeks. I ordered her, “Until I launch, don’t go back to the surgeon’s office for anything! Nothing! Find a civilian doctor.” I would later apologize to her, but I will always carry the memory of this failure as a husband and father. There are some things you can’t take back. I ignored the flight surgeon’s request, but he badgered me at my office until I finally submitted. The swab results were negative.

At T-7 days to launch I moved into the temporary trailer complex that served as the JSC crew quarters. This was a requirement of flight medicine’s mandatory health quarantine, a program designed to minimize the chances of an ill family member infecting a Prime Crew astronaut in the homestretch to a mission—just what I had feared in the case of Pat’s strep throat. From this point onward, everybody, including our wives and all NASA employees whose duties put them in contact with us, would have to first be checked by the flight surgeon before they could be in our company. School-age children were forbidden any contact.

I said good-bye to the kids. Pat and Amy were now sixteen, Laura thirteen. I had always been open with them about the dangers of spaceflight, so they understood the significance of this parting, that it might be the last time they would ever see me. Pat and Laura were composed and quiet, while I detected a nervous intensity in Amy’s eyes and voice.

I invited Donna to every crew quarters’ supper and, after a quick exam by the surgeon, she was allowed to attend. On the last evening before our departure to Florida, we went to my room and slowly and quietly enjoyed ourselves under the sheets (veryslowly andvery quietly, for it was a trailer). In the dark I whispered in her ear, “The next time we do this, I’ll be radioactive.” Neither of us mentioned the other possibility…that there might not be a next time.

On June 22, 1984, “Zoo Crew” departed for Florida in a flight of four T-38s. In a routine that had long been perfected by NASA PR, our wives had preceded us. The press liked this human touch of the women waiting to greet their men and NASA was happy to oblige them. As we entered KSC airspace we took a turn aroundDiscovery, then slipped into a fingertip formation and entered the “break” over the shuttle landing facility. Hank waited until every plane was landed and we taxied to the apron together. We cut the engines, popped our canopies, and climbed from our jets. Our spousal embraces were captured by a clutch of news photographers. It was aLife magazine moment. We were the heroic knights, come to joust with the forces of death…fire and speed and altitude…and our fair maidens were there to bid us adieu.

The final two days before a launch were designed to be relaxing. There were no simulations. We studied our checklists, flew in T-38s, and enjoyed suppers with our wives. But relaxed? Not a chance. I was hours from achieving a lifelong dream. Pure adrenaline was surging in my veins. Sleep was a struggle. The night terrors were ready to awaken me at the instant of unconsciousness.

We said the final good-bye to our wives at an L–1 luncheon at the astronaut beach house.^*The last time I had been there was with Judy. As Donna stepped from the van, I was glad I had no regrets about that night. The NASA-catered lunch was attended by our wives, the family escorts, and key launch personnel. The gathering was informal. There were no speeches, no toasts. Everyone helped themselves from a table set with sandwich fixings and chips. We filled our plates, found a place to park a beer, and enjoyed ourselves.