Spaceman

by Mike Massimino

  On December 17, 2001, Endeavor and the crew of STS-108 landed safely at Kennedy after their International Space Station assembly and supply mission. As soon as they touched down, we were up next. We were designated prime crew. Prime crew gets everything. We were first in line for T-38 flights. We had our own prime crew quarters at Kennedy with our names on the door. From that point until launch, everything revolved around us.

  At the end of January, we flew down to Kennedy for TCDT, the Terminal Countdown Demonstration Test, the final stage of preparation. The TCDT is huge. We flew down in our T-38s. Columbia was out at the launchpad, all decked out the way we were going to fly it, the full stack, with the external tank and the solid rockets. Anytime you fly down with your shuttle on the launchpad, you request a flyby. You get in low and do a 360 around your space shuttle. You bank around, look at it from above, and then land. It’s really, really cool. We went through evacuation drills to prepare for an abort on the launchpad. We suited up and went through a full launch simulation. Except for the fact that there was no fuel in the tank, everything was exactly how it would be for launch.

  The press was there, and we spoke to them for the first time. Suddenly everything felt real. The instruments and tools and carriers we’d been working with at Goddard had now been moved to the Kennedy Space Center, ready to get packed into the payload bay. When we went out and inspected the shuttle, I looked at it and I realized: This is my spaceship. There have been spaceships on this launchpad going back to Mercury and Apollo, but this one is mine.

  As we got closer to launch I could feel this huge apparatus, this giant NASA machine, coming to life around me. Thousands of people were working nonstop, around the clock, from Houston to Florida to Maryland and a dozen other places. And all that time and energy and effort was dedicated to one task: putting STS-109 in orbit. All eyes were focused on me and my six crewmates. During my space walks, those people would be focused on me and one other person. During some tasks, like rotating the solar array, all eyes at NASA, and the attention of every astronomer and hard-core space enthusiast in the world, would be focused on me and only me. It was both humbling and terrifying.

  There were times I felt completely overwhelmed. Going to space had been my dream for so long, sometimes I felt like it might still be a dream, like I was going to wake up and realize I was just an average Joe going to work back on Long Island in my tie and my white shirts. That was maybe the hardest thing for me: accepting that this was real. Physically I was in the best shape of my life. Getting my mind right was far more difficult.

  It’s called imposter syndrome, the fear that people are going to figure out that you don’t belong, that you don’t know what you’re doing. You’re afraid that one day somebody’s going to tap you on the shoulder and say, “Mike Massimino? Yeah, there’s been a mistake. We meant to pick the other guy.” It’s natural to have those thoughts, but too often I’d let them get in my way. Because I was the rookie and the youngest person on the crew, I fell into the role of being everybody’s kid brother, asking questions and letting others take the lead and show me what to do. I wanted to be humble, never arrogant, which is a trait astronauts despise. But the downside of that is that I’d slipped into a subordinate role. When it was time to step up and be a leader, I wasn’t prepared.

  Even being the junior spacewalker, I still had to be in charge of my own tasks. I had to be confident and comfortable making decisions on the fly, telling my crewmates what I needed them to do when I needed them to do it. That kind of leadership didn’t come easily for me. Sometimes during sims I would get caught up in something and I’d be so worried about making a mistake or a bad decision that I’d end up making a mistake or a bad decision. I was so concerned about being a rookie and accidentally breaking something that I tried to make up for it by studying and asking questions constantly. At times I went overboard in that regard. Asking too many questions betrayed my lack of confidence and gave some people the impression that I wasn’t prepared and didn’t know what I was doing. I might have sabotaged myself completely but for the great friends and mentors around me. Grunsfeld told me as much during one of my evaluations. He said, “Mass, I believe in you, and I believe that you can do this. Your problem is that you don’t believe in yourself.”

  One evening right before launch, Steve Smith came over to my house to talk. I’m sure he could tell what I was feeling. He said, “Mass, I want you to remember two things. One: Know that you’re prepared. You may not feel like you’re prepared, but they wouldn’t let you go if you weren’t. And two: Space is an open-book exam. You’re not alone up there. This is a team, and you can always get help if you need it.”

  That night was a real turning point for me. John and Steve were both right. I had to stop thinking of myself as a rookie. I was not a rookie in the eyes of Hubble engineers and astronomers and management and instructors—I was one of the guys who was going to fix the Hubble. I couldn’t leave my responsibilities to my crewmates. I was fully capable and, more important, during eighteen months of training, I had demonstrated that I was fully capable. Everyone from the NASA administrator to our janitorial support in the NBL had confidence in me; now, for the sake the team, I needed to have the same confidence in myself. Accepting that and knowing that was probably the hardest part of preparing for the mission.

  Once you’ve got your body and your mind right to go to space, there’s only one thing left to deal with, something you don’t hear engineers and scientists talk about a whole lot. You have to prepare your soul. Being ready to go means being ready to go. You’re not just preparing to leave the Earth for two weeks—you’re preparing for the possibility that you might be leaving forever, and you have to be at peace with that.

  Most days, you don’t think about being killed. You go to work, go shopping, go home, and it doesn’t cross your mind. But spaceflight is still a dangerous business. As we were counting down to launch, I thought about death constantly. I found myself having random moments. I’d linger in rooms more than normal, looking around, wondering if this was the last time I’d see those people. I took care of the will and the life insurance. I made sure the cars were washed. I made sure Carola knew where the spare key to the garage was.

  Every day I was reminded of my mortality in different ways, big and small. People love having stuff that’s been flown in space, and every astronaut has a kit in which we’re allowed to take items up to give away. I took a photo of the students from my kids’ elementary school, an FDNY patch and hat to honor my father. The Mets gave me a jersey. I was going around to my relatives and in-laws, too, asking if people wanted me to take anything for them. I was expecting them to offer a watch or some cuff links or a family photo or something. Not my family. They’re Italian-American Roman Catholics. Every single one of them came in with some religious object. I’m going to space and I’ve got a statuette of the Madonna and child. I’ve got a baby Jesus from a nativity set of some cousin over in Sicily. I’ve got a St. Christopher medal, a St. Michael medal, a picture of Padre Pio, one of Our Lady of Loreto. I’ve got crucifixes, rosaries, prayer cards, all these trinkets. It got to be funny, but there was a reason behind it: Everyone was worried I was going to die, and if it turned out this was my time, they wanted to make sure I was covered.

  I’ve always been a decent Catholic. Not the best, not the worst, but middle-of-the-road. In those last weeks I became the most devout Catholic in the state of Texas. I probably went a little overboard with it. As the launch got closer, I started going to confession a couple times a week. Right before quarantine I went to our priest, Father Dominic. “Father,” I said, “I’ve been coming here because I need a clean soul, but now I have to go into quarantine and I won’t see you anymore. What happens if something happens after I go in but before I go up? Can I send you confession via e-mail?”

  I’m sure he thought I was losing my mind. He was like, “Sure, Mike. If you want to send me an e-mail, that’s fine.”

  The whole crew is grappling with the
same fears. Everybody deals with it in different ways. Some people throw themselves into the work. Some people go to the gym. Different people need different things. For me, I needed to spend time with my family. That’s what was important to me as the clock ticked down in those final weeks. I made sure I was home for dinner. I took Gabby camping one weekend. Their school had a Skate Night fund-raiser where we went roller-skating. I could have spent that time going over EVA checklists for the thousandth time, but I decided to have confidence in my training and trust that I was ready so I could have that time for myself. But as the launch grew closer, family time was harder and harder to come by.

  To rendezvous with the Hubble, we had to catch it when it passed directly overhead; if you get to space and your target is on the other side of the planet, good luck catching it. For STS-109, that meant we had to launch in the middle of the night; we’d be going to bed at 12:30 in the afternoon Houston time and waking up to start our day at 8:30 at night. In order to acclimate our bodies, a few weeks out from launch, we started a sleep shift, pushing bedtime back a bit each night and waking up a bit later each morning. The further the sleep shift moved us off a normal nine-to-five schedule, the harder and harder it was to spend time at home. I was sleeping through getting the kids ready for school in the morning. Crew activities were running into dinnertime at night. It was frustrating for me.

  One week before launch, the crew goes into quarantine. Nobody wants to be dealing with a head cold or a virus in space. Adults can visit you in quarantine once they’ve been screened by the flight surgeon, which means you can still see your spouse and your fellow astronauts. But children under the age of eighteen can’t come in. That’s it. Kiss ’em and hug ’em and say good-bye. We were scheduled to start quarantine at 9:00 p.m. on February 21, a Thursday night, the same night as the annual Blue and Gold Banquet for Daniel’s Cub Scout pack. It was a big deal, the last thing I would get to do with my kids, and I didn’t want to miss it. It started at seven, and I could leave early to make the cutoff. I told the flight surgeon, Smith Johnston, that I was going. He said, “You’ve gotta be kidding me. Two hours before quarantine, in the middle of cold and flu season, and you want to walk into a room with a hundred six- and seven-year-olds blowing snot and germs everywhere? Are you out of your mind?”

  I said, “I’m going.”

  He was skeptical, but I think he understood why it was so important. “Just don’t get sick,” he said.

  Around 8:30 we got up to leave. I wanted to slip out quietly, but the scoutmaster got up and made an announcement: “Mike Massimino is leaving because he’s going to fly in space next week. Mike’s going to Hubble. Let’s wish him the best of luck!” The Cub Scouts and their families gave me a cheer. That was my big sendoff. We drove home, and I dropped Carola and the kids off so she could put them to bed. I gave my wife a hug and a kiss. I grabbed Gabby and Daniel and held them as close as I could and said good-bye.

  I checked into quarantine at 9:00 sharp, but while I was unpacking and getting settled in, I realized I’d forgotten my watch. It wasn’t that big a deal. I knew Carola could bring it to me the next day. But I realized maybe I could use that to ask to go back and get more time. I only lived five minutes away. I went to Scooter and said, “I need to run home real quick. I forgot something.”

  He said, “Mike, it’s 9:30. We’re officially in quarantine. Nobody’s supposed to leave.” I leaned on him pretty hard. He knew why I was really asking. He said, “Go. Get what you need. Come right back.”

  I raced home and ran inside. Carola heard me coming back in after we’d just had this big good-bye. She gave me a confused look. I said, “I just need to get something.” I don’t remember if I even got the watch. I went down the hall and I slipped into Gabby’s room. She was in her bed in her nightgown with flowers on it. I sat down in this little chair next to her bed and I watched her sleep. I stayed there for as long as I could. Ten, fifteen minutes maybe. Then I went over to Daniel’s room. He was wearing his baseball pajamas. I sat and watched him, too. I was trying to memorize their faces. I couldn’t make myself go down and get back in the car. Every part of me was saying, Don’t leave. Don’t go. I knew I’d see Carola again the next day, but was this the last time I’d ever see my kids? I’d been given this amazing gift, going to space, my childhood dream come true. But what if that dream cost me everything else?

  I stayed for as long as I could. Then I knew it was time to face facts. I left and drove back to quarantine. Once I got there, I was okay again. I looked around at my crewmates and I remembered: I have a second family here. They’re counting on me, too, and it’s time to go to work.

  15

  WEIGHTLESS

  The first thing I did in orbit was my Tom Hanks routine from Apollo 13, taking off my helmet and floating it in front of me. Then I took my gloves off one at a time and floated those in front of me as well. I looked away to do something and when I looked back up one of the gloves was gone; it had floated off. That was rookie space lesson number one: Hold on to things. They get away from you.

  I started unbuckling myself from my seat. Linnehan was already out and heading up to the window to take a picture of the external tank before it dropped away from us and burned up on reentry; this was to see if there was any external damage or loss of insulation foam that needed to be documented. I was right behind him. I had to get up to the window and take a look outside. John Glenn’s view of Earth in The Right Stuff was the thing that had rekindled my space dream, and now, twenty years later, it was my turn to see it for myself.

  We were over the Indian Ocean, which was a beautiful shade of blue with puffy white clouds sprinkled across it. I felt like I was in one of those dreams where you’re magically floating above everyone else. I could see the ripples in the ocean, the horizon with the blue atmosphere in a thin, hazy line. It was like all the pictures I’d seen, only a thousand times better. I lingered for a moment, staring out. Then it was time to go to work.

  The shuttle’s crew compartment is small, only 2,325 cubic feet for seven people to live and work in for nearly two weeks. Up on the flight deck is where you get the amazing views, with six forward-facing windows for the pilots to fly the ship, plus two windows in the roof and two in the aft bulkhead looking out at the payload bay. In the floor of the flight deck are two hatches leading down to the somewhat claustrophobic, very utilitarian mid-deck, virtually every inch of its walls taken up by storage lockers and the gear needed to live and eat and sleep in space. On the aft wall of the mid-deck is the airlock going out to the payload bay. The airlock is a cylinder with a round, forty-inch hatch leading to a space that’s about five feet in diameter and seven feet long, just enough room for two astronauts in EVA suits to wait to go out on a space walk.

  Scooter and Digger were up above us on the flight deck, checking out the systems, doing engine burns to put us on the right trajectory to rendezvous with Hubble. The rest of us were busy on the mid-deck going about the tasks necessary to convert the shuttle from a rocket ship to a spaceship: setting up the toilet, the galley, the exercise bike. That takes a couple of hours, in large part because adjusting to being weightless takes so long.

  From the minute I started moving around, I felt like a bull in a china shop. In the space station, astronauts can barrel themselves down the tube and get up some speed and fly like Superman. You can’t do that on the shuttle. You can spin around, leap from the floor to the ceiling, but that’s about it. On the first day, even doing that is difficult. Your sense of motion is all messed up. You feel crazy out of control at first, or at least I did. I’m naturally clumsy, plus I’m big, and I didn’t know my own strength. I was banging into everything, knocking into people. One time I reached for something on an overhead panel and my finger accidentally banged into a wall and flipped a switch. There’s switches and instruments all over the shuttle—over two thousand different displays and controls on the flight deck alone—and you don’t want to go around randomly turning things on and off. That’s bad
. So you move slowly, awkwardly, trying to develop some sense of control. The whole process is like learning how to walk again. It’s the same with your hands and fingers and fine motor skills. You go to grab something and, instead of grabbing it, you bat it away and you have to go chasing it. You’re like an infant concentrating on picking up a Cheerio for the first time.

  And you feel horrible, absolutely terrible. Adjusting your body to space is painful. The first thing that happens is the fluid shift. There’s tons of fluid in your body: blood, plasma, water, mucus. On Earth, gravity keeps it pushed down. In space, it’s free to float up to your head. Everybody’s face was red and flushed and puffy. We were floating around, looking like puppets in a Mardi Gras parade with giant papier-mâché heads. The other thing that happens is that your spine elongates—again, because there’s no gravity keeping it compressed. You grow about an inch in space, and all those sensitive muscles in your back have to stretch and adjust. That’s painful, too.

  Then there’s the nausea. “Stomach awareness” is the official term. That whole first day I floated around feeling like I was going to barf at any moment. Space sickness is actually the opposite of seasickness. The effect is the same, the nausea and the vomiting, but the root cause is different. When you’re below deck on a boat, you can’t see the motion of the sea, so your eyes are telling your brain that you’re completely still, but your vestibular system is going up and down with the waves. It’s the same thing if you’re trying to read in a moving car. The conflict between those two sensory inputs is what creates the feeling of nausea. In space, you’re floating around and this time it’s your eyes that are telling your brain that you’re moving and your inner ear that’s telling your brain that you’re still, because your inner ear doesn’t move when you’re weightless.