Gabby_ A Story of Courage and Hope - Alison Hanson [114]
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