Chasing Space

by Leland Melvin

  The next time I saw Shep, it was on Christmas Day when I patched a call from him on the space station to his family in the States. A few days later, I was back home in El Lago, Texas.

  The Prophecy

  As an astronaut training to fly in space you always took note of airport runway lengths because if you had 7,500 feet of asphalt you could get a pilot buddy to fly you wherever you needed to go in a NASA T-38. But on this spring day I was flying commercial because my hometown airport in Lynchburg only had 5,500 feet of tarmac.

  It had been nearly four months since I’d returned to Houston from Moscow and I had four days before I was to report for extravehicular activity training. I was heading home for my parents’ thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. As soon as I landed, my duties were to help the guests get settled from their travels so that on Sunday they could witness Deems and Gracie Melvin’s celebration of marital bliss. Despite teaching at the same school, my parents never tired of each other’s company. They drove to work together, bumped into each other in the hall, and then drove home together—every day. They were happy and truly loved and respected each other in a very powerful and amazing way. This celebration was another example of my parents’ ability to bring people together.

  Not long after arriving in Lynchburg, I drove to pick up my cousin Phyllis McLymore and an unexpected passenger, Jeannette Williamson Suarez, to take them to a hotel downtown. But as soon as we got there, a sudden downpour made it nearly impossible to get out of the car. So we waited. They asked about my life as an astronaut, and we talked about my parents and the upcoming celebration. Then, out of the blue with the fire and brimstone of a Southern Baptist preacher, Jeannette called my name and said she needed to share something with me. I had just met Jeannette and did not know she was a minister near the small town of Roseboro, North Carolina, where my father had grown up.

  I turned around, looking at Jeannette in the backseat, and she looked me in the eye. “I have a prophecy for you,” she said and told me that something unexpected would happen to me, and experts around the world would not understand why it happened. Yet I would overcome this setback, fly in space, and this would be “my testimony to share with the world.”

  Now this was a heavy message to hear. I had just returned from Russia where I worked with the Expedition 1 crew. I had developed situational awareness in a jet and mastered space shuttle and station training. I learned how to scuba dive and had dived in the Red Sea near Sharm El Sheik, Egypt, in an area called the “washing machine” because the currents were so strong you could be taken for a ride seventy-five feet under the surface. I had endured Navy water and land survival training and in just four days I was going to start my extravehicular activity training in the six-million-gallon Neutral Buoyancy Laboratory to see if I had “the right stuff” to walk in space.

  Still, I listened respectfully and humbly to Jeannette. She had a divine nature about her, and I knew her words were not those of a charlatan but had a seriousness and truth to their delivery, and a relevance to my journey. I had never had someone share a prophecy with me before, unless you count the time at a county fair when someone read my palm and shared generic things that I already knew. In retrospect, for someone to predict something so specific would normally have unnerved me. I thanked her for her words as the spring showers dissipated and the sun started to peek out from the clouds, and we set off again.

  Four days later, I put on the puffy white extravehicular activity suit and climbed into the pool at the Neutral Buoyancy Lab, ready to start my journey as a future astronaut.

  7

  Recovery and Tragedy

  Jeannette’s prophecy turned out to be an accurate description of my ordeal: the descent in the pool, the static in my headset, the sudden silence, the hapless investigations of concerned doctors and colleagues. I spent the next few weeks continuing my recovery at home in El Lago. I slowly began to regain hearing in my right ear but not much in my left. I struggled to understand my place in the world. Some days I was overcome with despair. With still no explanation for my sudden hearing loss, it was looking more certain than ever that I would never fly on a mission to space.

  During my second week at home I got a visit from Eileen Collins. She wasn’t in my class but she made it a point to come by and see me. Collins was NASA’s first female space shuttle commander. The only other woman to do that was Pamela Melroy in 2007. Collins would return to space in 2005 as commander of the Return to Flight shuttle mission after the Columbia tragedy. She lived much of her life in the spotlight, but she was very warm and humble. “It’s going to be okay,” she said to me, with the confidence of an Air Force test pilot and the warmth of a mother. “If there’s anything that you need, I’m there for you.”

  Eileen was one of my few visitors during this period, possibly because the Astronaut Office had advised people to avoid hindering my recovery. The solitude was fine by me, because I preferred to be alone while my brain was trying to rewire itself to hear again. I’ve always been an introvert, and my impaired hearing made me retreat to an even deeper solitary place. I was trying to figure out what my life in the Astronaut Corps would look like. I questioned many things but kept coming back to Jeannette’s prophecy and wondered how that was going to manifest in my life. It seemed that sometimes they were just words. Did I lose my faith? “Lost” may be too strong a description, but I did question it. Did God really want me to fly in space? Is there a God? What’s out there? Perhaps I’d have to figure out the answers with my feet on the ground. Space, the doctors said, wouldn’t be happening for me on their watch.

  In the midst of coping with my circumstances, I learned that Patty Hilliard Robertson, a member of the Penguin class and a close friend, had been critically injured during the crash of a small plane in Manville, Texas, and she was fighting for her life. Her husband, Scott, was asking that I come to the hospital. It wasn’t until I arrived at Houston Methodist that I grasped the tragedy that was unfolding from the anguished faces of Patty’s family. She was in a coma and not expected to survive.

  Patty had been a passenger in a two-seat experimental aircraft performing touch-and-go landings when the left wing clipped the ground, sending the plane into cartwheels down the runway before crashing into a tree. Now Patty was clinging to life in the same hospital where I had spent much of the previous month.

  Only three weeks earlier, Patty had waltzed into my hospital room with a plateful of sushi. She loved food almost as much as I did. Early in training, Patty and I had confessed to each other our mutual love of food, and during downtime we would talk about what we planned to make for dinner that night, a new restaurant in town, or what might be on the menu during an event coming up. Her mom, Ilse, was from Indonesia and really knew how to throw down on some good, spicy dishes. When Patty married Scott, she would ask me relationship questions to learn more about the male perspective. A classic NASA overachiever, Patty was a doctor who had left a thriving pediatric practice to fulfill her lifelong obsession with flying. Like me, she was waiting for her first flight assignment.

  A chill of apprehension crept through me as I drove to the medical center. Soon I was standing at Patty’s bedside, gazing down at her face covered in bandages, gauze pads over her eyes. I spoke to her and sensed that she felt my presence. Scott was standing nearby and his voice shook as he talked. A United Airlines pilot with the cool head of someone accustomed to being in charge, he didn’t often lose his composure. But on this day he was not in control. Scott asked me to go with him to the hospital’s chapel, where we prayed and tried to get our heads around what had happened. Sudden loss is like a punch to the gut, leaving you disoriented, and Scott knew I had experienced it before. I think he felt my ability to get through my recent medical problems and the uncertainty about my future might help him understand why this terrible thing had happened.

  After we prayed, I offered some words that I no longer remember but seemed to give him some momentary comfort. We embraced and then I left him at Patty’s si
de, surrounded by her family. Patty died later that afternoon. She was thirty-eight.

  After her funeral, I reevaluated my fascination with spaceflight. My mind often returned to the myth of Icarus and his golden wax wings, his errant flight toward the sun, and his fatal plunge to Earth. I have loved Henri Matisse’s jazzy rendition of Icarus all my life, including when I was a young child. It reminded me that if you fly too high you will fall. I had learned about the hubris of Icarus and his tragic demise during my sophomore year in high school in Ms. Patterson’s Latin class. Years later, on my worst days, I wondered if I had exhibited a similar flaw. Had I been guilty of excessive pride, of too much ambition? If so, would I be able to overcome it? Would I get the chance to do this space thing in my condition, as a severely hearing-impaired astronaut?

  I did more soul-searching as spring rolled into summer and I was assigned to the robotics branch in July. I would go to the office and mill around, go to the gym, or just go for a walk. I was recovered enough to appear normal, but it seemed like there were still wires being connected in my head. I tried to understand how to position myself strategically in social events so I could discriminate single conversations amid the din created by a room full of people. The right positioning could enable me to hear a conversation and not appear to be deaf. This was not something I had ever had to worry about while meeting with my astro-buds at Petey’s after a T-38 cross-country flight or a training session in the simulator.

  I faced another challenge at the launch parties, those gatherings where individuals who had been assigned space flights celebrated with their families and NASA employees. Some of my fellow Penguins were receiving assignments and holding their own launch parties. The “astronaut-only” mission de-briefs didn’t help either. We were invited to these sessions to hear and learn from veteran astronauts who shared stories of their missions in space. The de-briefs helped our class bond as a group, but now that wasn’t enough for me. I also saw the impact these men and women had had on the public, particularly children and teachers. As I waited and wondered about earning that coveted flight assignment, I saw success occurring for others. Would it ever happen for me?

  • • •

  After my hearing stabilized I started training in the Single System Trainer (SST). The space shuttle electrical systems, general-purpose computer (GPC), and auxiliary power units (APUs) were all systems that I had to relearn after my accident and after supporting the Expedition 1 crew in Russia for two years. It was time for me to get back on the proverbial horse.

  I was working through some computer malfunctions one day in early September when I got summoned to Astronaut Chief Kent Rominger’s office. Something had happened in New York involving terrorists, and I could see on his office TV that smoke was coming from one of the twin towers of the World Trade Center. All astronauts were told to leave the premises and sequester themselves in their homes because no one knew if the Johnson Space Center would be the next target. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility, and the presence of the first Israeli astronaut, training at the center with his crew from STS-107, heightened concerns. We were told not to step outside our homes for the next three days.

  While we were responding to those instructions, Astronaut Frank Culbertson was high above us. He had just completed routine physical exams of the crew of the International Space Station when the flight surgeon down in Houston shared the grim news. Frank suddenly had the odd distinction of being the sole American not on Earth during the 9/11 terrorist attacks.

  In an e-mail to his family and colleagues, he described watching the dark plume rising ominously into the sky from the eastern United States as he was filled with a profound helplessness and isolation.

  It’s difficult to describe how it feels to be the only American completely off the planet at a time such as this. The feeling that I should be there with all of you, dealing with this, helping in some way, is overwhelming. I know that we are on the threshold (or beyond) of a terrible shift in the history of the world. Many things will never be the same again after September 11, 2001. Not just for the thousands and thousands of people directly affected by these horrendous acts of terrorism, but probably for all of us. We will find ourselves feeling differently about dozens of things, including probably space exploration, unfortunately.

  It’s horrible to see smoke pouring from wounds in your own country from such a fantastic vantage point. The dichotomy of being on a spacecraft dedicated to improving life on Earth and watching life being destroyed by such willful, terrible acts is jolting to the psyche, no matter who you are. And the knowledge that everything will be different than when we launched by the time we land is a little disconcerting. I have confidence in our country and in our leadership that we will do everything possible to better defend her and our families, and to bring justice for what has been done. I have confidence that the good people at NASA will do everything necessary to continue our mission safely and return us safely at the right time. And I miss all of you very much. I can’t be there with you in person, and we have a long way to go to complete our mission, but be certain that my heart is with you, and know you are in my prayers.

  Humbly,

  Frank

  Frank had also just learned that the pilot of the plane that crashed into the Pentagon that day was his classmate from the Naval Academy, Charles Burlingame. It would be another three months before he climbed aboard space shuttle Endeavor for the trip home. He had been in space for 129 days.

  • • •

  Months flew by in a dizzying blur as the country tried to recover and as I continued the struggle to find my place at NASA. I thought that if I continued to work hard and stick to my goals I might become an arm operator on a shuttle mission. But, there were so many steps and approvals to obtain before that could happen.

  I continued to train in the SSTs and then started doing fixed and motion-based training, which involved both a static version of the space shuttle and one that moved to give you the sensation that you were launching off the planet. I continued to get my hearing tested at Methodist Hospital downtown and tried to get back in the flow of being an astronaut, albeit one whose future was uncertain. I believe my managers wanted the best for me but didn’t know what to do with me. So, they figured, why not let him train? In the robotics branch I had to get proficient on both Canadian robotic arms. I went to Montreal to train to be certified to fly it. I came home and would do qualification runs to support other missions. That meant working in Mission Control Center (MCC), ensuring that if the crew had to perform unexpected robotic maneuvers we would help validate the procedures and I would fly the trajectories to make sure they would operate safely on orbit. This branch position and support role lasted until September 2002, when Astronaut Office Deputy Andy Thomas asked if I would go to NASA headquarters in Washington, DC, to support the new Educator Astronaut Program that NASA Administrator Sean O’Keefe was launching with a new head of education. He knew my parents were educators and that I had a passion for inspiring the next generation of explorers.

  I accepted the assignment, but before I moved, Jake came into my life. As a kid, I knew what it was like to have a dog. Back then, though, I didn’t have to be completely responsible for the dog’s care because I had a family. Caring for King, the family’s collie, and Jocque, our French poodle, was a task shared by everyone in the house. Jake would be different, and my sole responsibility.

  Jake was a Rhodesian ridgeback and Chow mix, a combination that would explain the dog’s athletic build and boundless energy. Jake was an active dog to say the least. Rhodesian ridgebacks could go twenty-four hours without food or water while tracking down lions. It was Jake’s energy and unpredictable behavior that prompted his owners to find a new home for the dog. The couple had just had a new baby, another reason to find a new home for Jake. I knew Jake would become my dog. While there were no lions on the loose in my suburban neighborhood, I figured Jake’s stamina, intelligence, and loyalty would be great traits to have around the house a
nd on long hikes in the mountains. I brought him home the following week. At that point, Jake was a ninety-pound teenager—warm and affectionate one minute and barking up a storm the next. Initially, Jake had some separation-anxiety issues. Still, we bonded immediately.

  The next month, I drove to Washington and moved into the unfinished basement of my godsister, Renee Abbott, an attorney with the United States Patent and Trademark Office. I was going to keep Jake with me, but we realized my travel schedule, with the new job, would make that too difficult to manage. My parents agreed to look after Jake. I had planned to leave Washington during the weekends for occasional visits to Lynchburg, but that did not always happen.

  Educator Astronaut

  NASA’s Educator Astronaut Program was created to reinvigorate the public’s interest in the space program by stirring up the passion of students and teachers. I was the comanager of the program with Debbie Brown; she was the educator and I was the astronaut. Fifteen people were detailed to NASA Education headquarters from across the agency to develop the program and kick it off in January 2003. Our team was really close and we worked around the clock from November through December to get everything in place. It was one of the best teams I have ever worked on because everyone was so committed to inspiring kids and teachers to work with NASA. My boss, Adena Loston, was new to the agency and relied on me to help her understand the space part, as well as brief her on the office politics. I traveled around the country meeting educators and students to promote the program. The fact that I was not on flight status was the only sticking point. Some of the kids asked if I had ever flown in space, and when I said no, I lost a little credibility. They said I wasn’t an astronaut because “to be an astronaut you have to fly in space and you haven’t.” The kids didn’t know I was medically disqualified to fly, but it hurt because of my uncertainty.