“It was more intense than seeing you launch,” she says. “At least when you launched I had the chance to say good-bye to you right before. Today, I knew if something went wrong I would have to deal with not having seen you for seven months.”
She tells me she was so excited for me that I was able to do a spacewalk after all these years of being an astronaut, and she says that everyone at NASA felt that enthusiasm.
“I’m beat,” I say. “I’m not sure I want to do that again.” I tell her that this was definitely the “type two” kind of fun—fun when it’s done—but I know that by the time of our next spacewalk, I will be ready to go again. I tell her I love her before hanging up.
That evening, we go down to the Russian segment for a little celebration. Successful spacewalks are one of the events, like holidays, birthdays, and crew arrivals and departures, that warrant special dinners. This will be a short one, though, because Kjell and I are tired. While we eat, we talk about the day, what went well, what surprised us, what we might do differently next time. I tell Kjell what a great job he did, knowing he is still trying to put that errant switch throw behind him. He knows I don’t give unearned praise, so I hope he can finish this day feeling that he did well. I tell Kimiya again what a great job he did as IV, and I thank the Russians again for their help. On days like this it’s clear that this crew can truly pull together as a team, and that is one of the rewards of the hardest day I’ve ever had.
After we say our good nights, I slide into my bag, turn off the light, and try to fall asleep. As of tomorrow, Kjell, Kimiya, and Oleg will have spent one hundred days in space. Kjell and I will have some time to recover before preparing for our second spacewalk. That one will be even more complicated and physically demanding. But for now, I can rest. One of the biggest hurdles of this year is now behind me.
—
I CALL my father one evening to see how he’s doing, and he tells me that my uncle Dan, my mother’s brother, has died. He had suffered from a debilitating skeletal condition for most of his life, so his death was not a huge surprise, but because he was only ten years older than me he still seems too young to be gone. When Mark and I were about ten, Uncle Dan had moved into my family’s basement for a while, and because he was closer to our age than to my mother’s, I remember him being more like a big brother than an uncle. I remark to my father that death doesn’t wait while I’m in space, any more than life does. The fact that I never said good-bye and won’t be back until long after the funeral is a reminder that I’m missing things that can never be made up.
A few days later, I stop Kjell when he is floating through the U.S. lab and ask him if he could spare a minute. I put on a serious face and tell him I need to talk with him.
“Sure, what’s up?” Kjell responds with his characteristic upbeat tone. People who are this sunny and positive can come across as fake, but I’ve learned from working with Kjell all this time in close quarters and under challenging circumstances that his attitude is completely real. He actually is that positive. I imagine this trait served him well as an emergency room doctor, and it’s equally valuable in long-duration spaceflight.
“It’s about the next spacewalk,” I say, with a serious tone. I pause as if I’m searching for the right words.
“Yeah?” Kjell says, now with a hint of apprehension.
“I’m afraid I have to tell you—you’re not going to be EV Two.” EV2 was the role Kjell had played on our first spacewalk—I was the leader (EV1) as the more experienced astronaut, though it was the first time outside for both of us.
A look of concern crosses Kjell’s face, followed quickly by sincere disappointment.
“Okay,” he answers, waiting to hear more.
I decide I’ve fucked with him enough. “Kjell, you’re going to be EV One.”
It was a mean trick, but it’s worth it to see the relief and excitement on his face when he realizes that he has been promoted. Kjell will fly more future missions and likely will conduct more future spacewalks, so it will be invaluable for him to get experience as the leader. I have full confidence in his ability to carry out this role, and I tell him so. We have a lot of preparation to do.
—
NOVEMBER 3 IS a midterm election day on Earth, so I call the voting commission in my home county—Harris County, Texas—and get a password that I can use to open a PDF they emailed to me earlier; I fill out my ballot and email it back to them. There are no political candidates on the ballot, just referendums. Still, I take pride in exercising my constitutional rights from space, and I hope it sends a message that voting is important (and that inconvenience is never a good excuse for failing to vote).
I follow the news from space, especially political news, and it seems like the presidential election next year is going to be like no other. Like the hurricanes I watch from above, a storm seems to be gathering on the horizon that will shape our political landscape for years to come. I pay close attention to the primaries of both parties, and though I don’t tend to be a worrier, I start to worry. Sometimes before going to sleep I look out the windows of the Cupola at the planet below. What the hell is going on down there? I mutter to myself. But I have to concentrate on the things I can control, and those are up here.
16
THE RUSSIANS HAVE a very different system for medically certifying people to fly, and when we travel in their Soyuz we must abide by their rules. So it was a problem when my new flight surgeon Steve Gilmore presented me as a crew member to fly on the Soyuz to the International Space Station after having recently been treated for cancer.
Russian surgical procedures and treatment options for prostate cancer are not as advanced as those in the United States, and as a result, their statistics on survival and recovery are very different. Russian doctors overestimated the chances that I would experience debilitating negative effects from the surgery or have an early recurrence of the cancer. They were especially concerned that I would suddenly find myself unable to urinate in flight, which would require a costly and dramatic early departure. They didn’t want to take that risk.