Gabby

by Gabrielle Giffords

  This was the second-to-last space shuttle mission, so those days in April were a bittersweet time for all of us in the space program. Thousands of workers at NASA and its contractors, including many people I knew and admired, would be losing their jobs after the thirty-year shuttle program wound down. I was impressed and moved to see the dedication and professionalism of the space-program workforce—engineers, technicians, flight controllers, factory workers, simulator instructors—given that the end of the road was nearing for many of them.

  This would be the 134th space shuttle launch. At NASA, we referred to our mission as STS-134; STS stands for Space Transportation System.

  Endeavour, our spacecraft, took almost four years to build. Congress authorized its construction in August 1987, to replace Challenger, which had exploded eighteen months earlier. It was largely built from a collection of spare parts left over from the construction of Discovery and Atlantis.

  In a national competition involving seventy thousand students, NASA selected Endeavour as the spacecraft’s name. Endeavour was a ship captained by explorer James Cook that sailed the South Pacific in 1768. Cook, an amateur astronomer, had brought along ninety-three crewmen, including eleven scientists and artists. They came to Tahiti to observe Venus as it traveled between the Sun and the Earth. That helped them estimate the distance from our planet to the Sun. Those Endeavour crew members from 1768 were groundbreakers. It was an honor to continue their efforts.

  As a space shuttle, Endeavour was designed for one hundred missions. Before STS-134, it flew twenty-four flights, traveling 103,149,636 miles. There were many successes. Endeavour’s astronauts replaced the rocket motor on a nonfunctioning communications satellite in 1992; they were the first to service the Hubble Space Telescope in 1993; they delivered the first American component of the International Space Station in 1998.

  Our mission’s highlight would be the delivery to the space station of the $2 billion Alpha Magnetic Spectrometer, a cosmic particle detector, which would help researchers study how the universe was formed. It was designed by Samuel Ting, a Nobel Prize–winning physicist, and built by six hundred scientists and technicians from sixteen countries.

  Once installed, the Spectrometer would help scientists understand complex high-energy particles, potentially solving mysteries of the universe such as the existence of antimatter and the nature of dark matter and dark energy. (Antimatter is defined as any substance that, after combining with an equal portion of matter, leads the entire substance to convert into energy.) Is there naturally occurring antimatter in the universe? Where is it? Are distant stars and galaxies, visible to astronomers, made of antimatter? If we got the 15,251-pound device installed correctly, we’d have answers. It could be historic.

  I wasn’t exactly nervous, but I was very aware of the stakes. As the commander, I had to make sure every part of the multibillion-dollar mission went exactly as planned. I knew I’d be under a microscope. A lot of people—in the media, at NASA, in the general public—would be watching to see if my dual responsibilities to Gabby and to STS-134 would result in stresses that would compromise any part of the mission. Knowing this, I wanted to perform well beyond expectations. That was a pact I’d made with myself.

  As an astronaut, you have to become one with a mighty machine. I wanted to help make sure that Endeavour carried me and my crew safely into space, that it allowed us to complete our complicated mission without any major problems, and that it brought us safely home.

  After our mission, Endeavour would be retired. A museum in Los Angeles, the California Science Center, was waiting for it. I was determined to get it there without a scratch.

  While in quarantine, before heading down to Florida, there was one particularly difficult astronaut ritual I had to attend to: the writing of the “contingency” letters.

  Many astronauts feel the need to write these goodbye letters to their loved ones in case they draw the ace of spades and don’t come home. This was my fourth mission, so I’d already penned such letters three previous times. They’re not easy to write, and I hate doing it. But given the risks, the letters can help wives, children, parents, and siblings grieve after a tragedy.

  The legendary astronaut Story Musgrave has described the space shuttle poetically and perfectly as “very unsafe, very fragile. It’s a butterfly bolted onto a bullet.” The shuttle doesn’t fly very well. It’s this vehicle with stubby wings, launched at the front end of a giant ball of fire, which then becomes a glider for the ride home. It is an awesome spaceship. It’s also a miracle that it ever makes it back to the runway at the end of a mission. Our families know all this, though we don’t talk about it a lot. The letters, delivered only if we don’t survive, address what is often unspoken.

  On April 26, alone in quarantine, I began writing four letters to be left behind in my backpack in crew quarters. If I died, my brother, Scott, would know to look there. His job would be to take out the letters, open the one addressed to him, and then deliver the other three.

  The letter I wrote to him wasn’t too emotional. He and I know the drill. Between us, there’s not much to say. I mostly scribbled out some financial concerns and details of my trust for my daughters. I had already left my will and detailed bank account information in an envelope at the front office. Scott knew to find that stuff there. In my letter to him, I covered other nuts-and-bolts issues, such as giving him the name of a specific financial advisor I wanted him to use when investing my money. Since this letter wasn’t notarized, I put my thumbprint on it. How legal was that? I had no idea, but I was getting ready to fly into space and out of time. I needed to do something.

  Next, I wrote to Claudia and Claire. My letter to Claire began: “If you are reading this, things didn’t turn out as we expected, and I will not be with you anymore.” I told her I loved her more than she’ll ever know, that she’s my “little buddy,” and that Uncle Scott would be there for her in my place. I reminded her I’d always be proud of her, and that she’s smart, loving, and beautiful. I also wrote: “Please try to stay connected with your stepmom. Gabby loves you very much and needs you in her life. You need her, too. She will get better. Please help her with that.”

  I told Claudia: “I will always be with you in spirit. I will be there with you when you are at graduation and at all those big events in your life—just not in person.” I asked her to look after her younger sister, and to stay connected to Gabby. “I am very proud of how you put your previous feelings aside after January 8 and made changes. Gabby loves you very much and will be there for you as best as she can.”

  It was hard for me to imagine the girls opening and reading those letters after receiving news of my death. I tried not to think about it.

  My final letter was to Gabby. I’d written to her before previous launches, of course, but this time, given what we’d been through together, my emotions couldn’t have been more intense. On the outside of her envelope I wrote, “Open in 134 contingency only.” Inside was the letter:

  Dearest Gabby,

  I am so sorry. If you are reading this, it has certainly been a tougher year than either of us could have ever imagined. It is odd how things turn around so quickly. As you recently said, “Life is strange.”

  Maybe things happen for a reason or maybe this is just a random world we live in. I hope it is the former. I certainly believe that what happened January 8th was fate. My mishap, on the other hand, can be chalked up to flying a vehicle that is very dangerous. It really stinks that we won’t be together, but no matter how awful this is, you will persevere. You are tough! The toughest person I know.

  You will get better, recover and move on and do great things. Please try to meet someone else and fall in love again. You deserve that. Please know that I will always love you madly.

  We are still a team—in spirit.

  I love you and will miss you always.

  MK

  On April 27, 109 days after the shooting, Gabby arrived at Houston’s Ellington Airport to fly to Flo
rida for the launch. She made a willful decision that her coming-out would be a statement, to herself and those around her, that she was on her way back to self-sufficiency. She got out of her wheelchair and slowly climbed the stairs onto the NASA jet. A news helicopter captured long-range video of the moment, which aired all over television that day. It was the first glimpse the public had gotten of Gabby since January 8.

  Gabby landed at Florida’s Patrick Air Force Base, thirty miles from the Kennedy Space Center. She then was checked into the barracks there along with her mom, Pia, her nurses, her security detail, and the astronaut Piers Sellers, who was serving as Gabby’s NASA liaison. I was in crew quarters, preparing for the launch, but I got several e-mails from Gloria about the “bleak” accommodations: an old table and chairs, industrial-grade carpeting, “a stiff little sofa,” a discolored pastoral landscape on the wall. The place was on a sand lot dotted with crabgrass. “It’s like living in a motel at the end of the universe,” Gloria wrote.

  Gabby had spent six months with the Mennonites. She knew what it’s like to live austerely, so I figured she’d be OK with the barracks. I was wrong. When I called to ask her about the accommodations, she registered her dissatisfaction. “Awful,” she said.

  Maybe living in a hospital for months had her longing for something less sterile. In any case, it was nice to see she was taking over her life to some extent, and asserting herself. She wanted new accommodations, calls were made, and we were able to get everyone set up at the local Residence Inn.

  “It’s amusing,” Gloria told Gabby, “that a brain-injured woman had to take matters into her own hands to finally get us adequate lodging.”

  In the early pages of this book, I described Gabby’s arrival at the NASA beach house on April 28, the day before our scheduled launch, when I was able to take her down to the water’s edge. That may have been our happiest moment since the shooting.

  Later, Gloria told me that when Gabby left the beach house and got into the car, she seemed exhilarated and almost carefree. As they drove off, “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey was playing on the car radio, and Gabby surprised everyone by happily singing along. I was sorry I missed that.

  Gabby’s four days in Florida were not without incident. One night while she was returning from a NASA function, Gabby needed to use a restroom. It can be pretty desolate around the Kennedy Space Center, and her support team couldn’t find one in time. “Gabby was mortified and started to cry,” Gloria wrote to me in an e-mail. “Darlene and I both comforted her. It’s in these times when I almost lose it to grief over Gabby’s humiliation and current helplessness.”

  There were fifteen hundred requests for media credentials at the launch, in large part because of Gabby’s presence. Journalists kept asking Gabby’s congressional staffers how she was doing. Their answers were true: She was extremely excited to be there. Just the fact that she was able to make it to the launch was an uplifting story. But those feel-good stories were only part of the picture. They couldn’t possibly convey all the emotions Gabby was experiencing—that her excitement at times was tinged with sadness, and even despair.

  Those escorting Gabby to and from various events around the Kennedy Space Center learned to make sure there were predetermined restroom breaks. One stop was at a police station in Cocoa Beach. Gloria told me that what seemed like the entire force came out to say hi to Gabby. Gloria wrote in an e-mail: “As we were leaving, a new face appeared—a bike cop. While Darlene and I have differing opinions on what color his eyes were, we both noticed his physique. He said hello to Gabby, and she responded, ‘Hot Daddy!’ He really was a hottie.”

  I read that e-mail, alone in my quarters. It would be an interesting wrinkle in our story if I returned from my sixteen days in space and Gabby had run off with a bike cop.

  Before each shuttle mission, there typically would be a barbecue for the entire crew and a small group of family and friends. (All attendees first had a physical to make sure they were healthy.) For the STS-134 barbecue, each of us got to bring five guests. I brought Gabby, Gloria, Claudia, Claire, and Pia.

  As commander, I emceed the evening. I invited everyone to stand up and introduce themselves. At previous missions, Gabby liked to ask people to talk about the first concert they attended. “I won’t make you all do that,” I said, and Gabby laughed.

  We toasted all our loved ones who had supported us. We toasted for a safe flight. Then, as the get-together was ending, I asked Gabby, “What do you think? Do you want to go see the shuttle on the launchpad?”

  “Yes!” she said.

  “OK, it’s a good thing your hair is now short, because we’re taking my convertible,” I said.

  By tradition, NASA rented convertibles for astronauts to drive around Kennedy Space Center in the days before their flights. NASA got a good government rate, and it was nice for us to have a car available. For this mission, NASA got us all matching silver Chrysler Sebring convertibles. (In the glory days of the space program, back in the 1960s and 1970s, astronauts were able to lease Corvettes for a dollar a year because Chevy dealers liked having them on the road, showing off their products. Those days are long gone.)

  Gabby’s nurse helped her into the front seat of the car. Gloria and the Capitol Police supervisor, Lu Cochran, hopped in the back. (Like Gabby, they’d been given medical clearance to be with me.) We took off, fast, with Aerosmith’s “Dream On” on the car radio and Endeavour and its launchpad tower rising ahead of us.

  When we showed up at the gate, the security officer was surprised to see me. “You can’t drive all the way up to the pad,” he said. I told him I’d just do a loop or two around the inside perimeter. He let me through.

  It was a blast as we sped around the shuttle with the wind in our faces. Gabby’s close-cropped hair was undisturbed, and she loved looking up at Endeavour, just hanging there off the side of the big orange external fuel tank and the solid rocket boosters. Seeing the space shuttle up close at the pad is always an awe-inspiring experience.

  Later, I got a call from one of my managers at NASA. She had heard I was driving around the launchpad and wanted to know why. That was a time when technicians were fueling the orbital maneuvering engines, and it was considered a hazardous operation. Unessential vehicles weren’t supposed to be out there.

  “The security guard let me in,” I said. “I wanted to let my wife have a look.”

  “You were speeding on your way to the pad, too,” she said. The speed limit on the beach road behind the launchpad is thirty-five.

  “Well, I always speed when I’m out there before a launch,” I said. “How fast was I going? A hundred?”

  “You were clocked at seventy-five,” she said.

  “Seventy-five?” I answered. “I was trying to go a hundred! I ran out of room.”

  She didn’t like my attitude and I didn’t like her phone call. One hundred and thirty-three space shuttle crews before this one had sped all over the Kennedy Space Center and now it was an issue? My manager was making a point. “I want to make sure I made the right decision in assigning you to this flight,” she said.

  I understood she had a job to do. But to me, it was classic NASA Astronaut Office management bullshit: Try to track down people’s little misdemeanors and then rag on them over them.

  “OK,” I told my manager. “I’ll try not to speed in the space shuttle.”

  The day before the scheduled launch, astronaut Dan Tani, who’d been a crew member on my first mission, had the job of giving more than a hundred people from our extended families a presentation about STS-134. They all gathered in an auditorium at the Kennedy Space Center. Dan was the man for the job. My crew and I weren’t there, but we heard he put together a great slide show.

  “OK, let’s look at the key players tomorrow,” he said, and then he showed a slide of Prince William and Kate Middleton, with their ranks: prince and commoner. “Let me show you the vehicle which will be used tomorrow,” Dan said. Instead of a photo of the shuttle, he
flashed a slide of the 1902 State Landau carriage, which would transport the bride and groom. “It’s a six-horsepower carriage. Top speed: 5.4 miles per hour. At NASA, we call that Mach 0.007105.”

  When his royal-wedding jokes ended, Dan showed slides of me and my crew in training, and our loved ones cheered each photo. It was like a pep rally. He told them about our mission. “You have to bring every spare part with you,” he said. “You don’t have FedEx to bring more parts.” He talked about why we wear those bulky orange suits. “The suits have a pressurized environment, in case they have to bail out at a high altitude.” And he used the phrase PEU to describe how the shuttle stood on the launchpad. “That’s ‘Pointy End Up,’” he said, explaining that astronauts have to get their bearings when they enter it. “It’s like turning your house on its side. You wouldn’t recognize it.”

  Dan said it was good that Gabby’s story had brought more media to the launch. “Because of all the attention this mission is getting,” he said, “we can show the world the capabilities of this magnificent machine and crew.”

  When Dan was finished, buses were waiting to take our family members several miles away to the launchpad, where my crew and I would show up to meet them. It’s another NASA tradition—the extended family farewell.

  Everyone stood behind a rope line, facing the launchpad. On my earlier flights, we stood with a ditch separating the crew from the guests, so the ritual came to be called “the wave across the ditch.” This time, the six of us drove up in our convertibles, got out, and stood together on the other side of the rope. Because we were still in quarantine, we couldn’t get too close to anyone. I always feel like a circus animal as everyone takes photos at the wave across the ditch.

  Because the crew’s wives had been given physicals and deemed healthy, they were allowed to join us for photos. Gabby had been in these photos during my past missions, but since she was still not up to being seen publicly, she wasn’t there for this one. So it was just me, my five crew members, and their five wives. We were all lined up and everyone was clicking away. I smiled through it, but I was thinking of how the sixth wife belonged in those photos.