In Possession of the Enough Stuff
By Wendy Kennar
As it turns out, I don’t have the “right stuff.”
Becoming an astronaut was my dream, my goal, my ambition for most of my childhood. I took it seriously, too. I learned facts and trivia about American’s manned space program. (Alan Shepard, the first astronaut to reach sub-sub-orbital flight, was the same astronaut who golfed on the moon). I could recite the names of the Mercury 7 astronauts. I learned NASA (National Aeronautics and Space Administration) acronyms: CBD (cargo bay doors), STS (space transportation system), ET (external tank), OMS (orbital maneuvering system).
However, I did have some concerns about my physical competencies. I worried that my asthma would be problematic. Running during P.E. class was difficult, and I couldn’t run far without having to take a puff or two from my inhaler. I was concerned when my pediatrician told my mom I had mild scoliosis, a slight curvature of my spine, and I worried that NASA doctors would find me unfit to fly. (I didn’t want to follow in Donald “Deke” Slayton’s footsteps—one of the original Mercury 7 astronauts, Deke was grounded due to an erratic heart rate and wouldn’t fly into space until years later, as a member of the Apollo-Soyuz Test Project).
Maybe I wouldn’t be physically fit enough to be an astronaut, but in the meanwhile, I’d work hard and control what I could—namely my academic performance. I was a straight-A student and enjoyed math and science so the idea of more years of study in those areas was more than okay with me. I excelled at public speaking, because astronauts do a lot of press. A lot of interviews. A lot of speaking engagements. I entered speech contests during junior high school, and won a few. I entered essay contests and earned praise for those as well.
I was doing what I thought I needed to do to make my dream a reality.
Except my plans got side-tracked when I spent part of my junior year of high school volunteering in an elementary school classroom and found that I loved working with kids. By that point, I had been earning money as a babysitter and tutor for years. But then I saw firsthand that I could teach. I was helping kids. I was making a difference. And I was enjoying it.
So I became an elementary school teacher who loved teaching and who loved bringing space into my classroom whenever I could. My students learned about the “vomit comet” (NASA’s KC-135 aircraft which provided riders with short bursts of weightlessness) when we learned about Mae Jamison, the first African-American female astronaut. I brought in my signed photo of Sally Ride during Women’s History Month. (Back in my own elementary school days, I had written a fan letter to Sally Ride and was ecstatic when she replied with an autographed picture signed, “To Wendy, Good Luck! Sally Ride.”)Even if I had pursued my first dream, if I had tried to become a United States astronaut, I wouldn’t have succeeded. Because now I know the truth. Apparently, I’m claustrophobic.
Which would definitely have been a problem when I was suited up and wearing my astronaut helmet. And it would certainly have created complications when I was confined in a spacecraft with my crewmates without the option to go outside, get some fresh air, and take a moment for myself.
Surprisingly, I didn’t realize I was claustrophobic until I became a chronic patient and MRIs became a regular part of my life.
The first time I had an MRI, I was completely unprepared for it. I thought an MRI would just be a fancy X-ray. Instead, I felt as if I was being swallowed up by a massive machine that slid me inside and wouldn’t let me back out. It was loud, it vibrated, and I felt like the whole thing was a very elaborate plan to see how long it would take until I cracked and pushed the panic button. (I kept it firmly in my grip, my thumb gently hovering above the button. Just in case. And to my credit, I’ve never used it.)
Although I’ve had several MRIs since that first traumatic one, it hasn’t exactly gotten any better or any easier, even though I know what to expect, and even though I know I always survive them. I am given small little squishy earplugs, and I wear large headphones. I’m asked what type of music I’d like to listen to, and I always request “Oldies,” music that may be more than 50 years old but still makes me feel good, because it’s fun and catchy and has somehow made it into my long-term memory.
But last month, I walked into my MRI appointment with a different mindset. I had a plan. I was going to play pretend, and in my head, try to fool myself, telling myself I wasn’t just a patient with an autoimmune disease; I was an astronaut preparing for launch. Or, if not launch, then at least an exercise in the simulator. I traded my street clothes for Johnny gowns, no where near as cool as a blue NASA flight suit, but still the “uniform” required for the job at-hand. And much like the astronauts wore on their shuttle missions, I too wore rubber-sole socks.
I lie flat on my back and waited as the technician adjusted my pillow and lined me up properly. I stayed still as the technician strapped me to the table and tightly wrapped my legs before my scan. All the while I was mentally watching the part of Apollo 13 when the astronauts’ shoulders are stepped on so that they can be even more tightly buckled, more securely fastened. I tried to tell myself that it was for my own safety. Me and Tom Hanks (as Jim Lovell in Apollo 13).
During the scan, I looked above me at the few ceiling panels that had images of clouds on them. While the machine made its loud sounds, and when my head was far enough out of the machine, I looked up at those clouds and tried to imagine I was seeing them as I orbited the earth. If I squinted my eyes, it almost looked as if these static images were floating clouds.
At times, the machine vibrated and seemed to shake. Again, I tried to tell myself that it was my space shuttle readying for launch. That I had trained for this. That the unpleasant noise and sensation wouldn’t last. That I could do this. That this was just one more test of my toughness and my fortitude.
Each time the technician interrupted my music to tell me the next scan would be starting and would last four-and-a-half minutes, I tried to tell myself it was actually the voice of Capcom (the Capsule Communicator) back at Mission Control in Houston. A fellow astronaut. The voice keeping me informed and connected to everything happening back on Earth.
When the scan was done, there were no enthusiastic bursts of applause. No distribution of congratulatory cigars. No cameras snapping my photo. There was just an unceremonious walk back to my changing room.
I emerged as myself. Jeans, top, lots of jewelry. I looked at the mirror, checked my reflection, and acknowledged who I am.
I don’t possess the “right stuff,” and wouldn’t have made it as an astronaut, literally a “star voyager.”
But I do most certainly possess the “enough stuff.” And these qualities are essential to my life as a voyager on this circuitous path as a chronic patient living with an autoimmune disease called Undifferentiated Connective Tissue Disease.
I’m intelligent-enough to coherently speak with doctors, nurses, and lab technicians.
I’m tough-enough to endure regular medical tests.
I’m brave-enough to live my life as best I can.
I’m strong-enough to go out the front door each day, while navigating the ins-and-outs of life with an invisible disability.
And it’s enough.
I’m enough.
Wendy Kennar (she/her) is a mother, writer, and former teacher. Her writing has appeared in a number of publications and anthologies, both in print and online. You can read more from Wendy at www.wendykennar.com where she writes about books, boys, and bodies (living with an invisible disability). You can also find Wendy on Instagram @wendykennar.