Deimos

—Deimos—

Death, if it comes for me, was a hard probability to grasp. Reworking my will and signing away my life to the space station. I never knew pen and paper could hold so much weight. I finalized the documents only moments ago. Seven years ago, it would have been a no-brainer, an absolute, no questions asked. Now, with Mila in my life, the small human who had taken hold of my heart so ferociously, I sat questioning all my former hopes and dreams. I sit here, in what can easily be my last moments on Earth, reliving how quickly it all happened. How quickly my life had turned around. How quickly I went from holding an infant to watching her detest me in our goodbyes. I did my best to make it feel like a see you later.

I have wanted to be an astronaut since I was a child. I believe, in some strange way, that my parents predestined me for it by putting a small knitted solar system above my crib. Saturn and Jupiter beckoning me to explore their knitted form. Math and science were so easy for me, like the seed for another language had been placed inside me long ago, vines forming within my bloodstream, only growing eagerly with time. There is that silly saying, don’t eat the watermelon seeds, it may grow in your belly. What I had consumed was cosmic constellations.

It was an early Tuesday morning when I found out I had been accepted into The Cultio Mission program, every astronaut’s dream. The mission is to land where no one has gone before. We are destined to land upon Deimos, one of Mars’ moons. Mars was the Roman god of war and the guardian of agriculture. The mission plans to land and to pick away at one of its moons, Deimos. To search through the moon’s dust and its dirt. The moon that orbits Mars every 30 hours, eerily and beautifully similar to our own Earth’s moon and her rotations. The whole trip itself would only take two years. Only take two years; it’s not much time, but it’s an eternity all in the same. My mind cannot wrap around the juxtaposition of these next two years. I had put in my application for the spot over a year before I found out my acceptance. It seemed almost abstract, delusional. I never thought to be chosen. Yet, here I am, signing my final documents before we take off.

Only two years was nothing to my once youthful ears. Space had her own sirens singing, pleading for me to join the cosmos while I cruised the seas of science and the studies of space. My elation dipped when the news broke, because two years now will feel like a thousand. I will have around 728 missed mornings singing as we make banana pancakes. Mila likes it when I use chocolate chips and whipped cream to make smiley faces on her breakfast plate. It would be all those mornings without smelling her hair because she snuck in my bed in the middle of the night, never scared, but only missing me. Two years of day-to-day conversation I have tried so hard not to take for granted.

Had my dream changed? Had the trajectory been thrown so abruptly off course without me ever noticing? I had applied for the position without thinking I would ever even receive its acceptance. However, its acceptance was a dream I prepared my whole life for. Was it so impossible a dream, or was that an excuse I made myself for the mismanagement of my true feelings?

The small number of people who train and study diligently every day of their lives to hopefully become astronauts is even smaller for those who are accepted to venture into the wild forest of sparkling light. This was my dream: to view our world from beyond the heavens, to admire the craziness of our human existence from a black, airless space. This was no trip to our space station, where we lounged in ease, circling the planet for a few months. This would be the farthest any human of our world has been. This would be extraordinary. This would be record-breaking, and ultimately, the reality was that this could be deadly.

I believe that I could have easily left just my husband, Leo, for the bright stars in the sky. I knew I could because he would understand; he has known this dream of mine since the day we met. He would know that I would be achieving the once-proclaimed impossible. The stuff that only happens in science fiction. He would praise and cheer me on my way with arms wide open, and upon my return, if I returned, he would be there, no resentment.

Mila was my best friend since the day she was born. She was a charming little baby who spit up everywhere and all the time. Yet, despite the unease of her stomach, she never fussed. She has taken that idea of life is good and fine-tuned it into her internal algorithms. As an infant, it was rare that she was upset, and if she did become so, it was always short-lived. She would love it when I sang to her; her eyes glittered with a mesmerizing glare as we would rock in the dim light of her nursery. Her smile would take hold of her face, pushing dimples into each cherub-like cheek, before nestling into my arms to sleep. I would rock with her, smelling her, singing Blackbird softly, reminding myself that this went by so quickly. She loved that song; it always eased her into sleep.

As she started growing, so did her mind and personality. She never stopped babbling or cooing. Those noises eventually turned into words or songs; most of it, I think, was English. Some words she created herself. The word that sounded like cat and fiff, which I had zero clue what it was, still sounded beautiful coming from her willowy lisp. Her button-like lips formed into a dimpled smile. I would always nod in understanding, kissing her big round, squishy cheeks.

Our bond was strong, as the first two years of her life, I was able to work a hybrid role with the space station. I worked mostly from home for the first three and a half years of her life. Taking her to preschool turned into a battle amongst the Gods, and Mila was the anger-stricken Zeus. She could not understand why I would leave her. Her outrage almost broke Leo and I. However, as time always does, it got better. She made her friends, and our daily routines settled in. Our bond, while tested, was never broken — never even cracked.

I received the call that I had been accepted into the mission on a Tuesday morning, not even 10 minutes from when I had dropped her off at school. That simple goodbye, so normal, so easily done and said, only a few minutes later felt overwhelming. There was no “not accepting” the position. I would be one of the five astronauts going on the mission. You do not work your entire life by a map to not accept a treasure buried. The news gleamed like a pirate’s cursed gold.

Would it be crazy to say, actually, I cannot, or I do not think my heart can handle it? She cannot handle it, so therefore nor can I? There are not only intense formalities and training that go hand in hand with leaving our atmosphere, but a ton of legal work as well. The probability of death, of dying where no help could be received, was a true and dire threat. That threat that for almost a year has now plagued my dreams. How can I console my child through grief if I no longer exist? Religion tells us that our spirit will hover and comfort, but I am not religious; I am a scientist.

I called Leo immediately; oh God, he was thrilled. Beyond thrilled, I heard his feet dancing while we spoke. His voice was choking and pausing because he was elated for me, not thinking of our time apart but only for the fact that he had seen me put in the hard work year after year. He was the doting, loving, and supportive husband I had married. He saw our lives changing for the better, the time apart only being a blip in the circumstance. He went quiet when I started crying on the phone, understanding that my tears were built from frustration or confusion, rather than bliss or joy. He knew me well enough to understand the difference in sound.

“Oh babe, hey, hey,” he said once he realized I wasn’t over the moon, for well, going over the moon. “Hey, shhhh, it’s going to be okay, you are going to be amazing at this. I promise. I uh, I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours, but you will be okay. Mila and I will be just fine. Babe, this is good, this is an amazing thing.”

I wailed; I couldn’t form words. My tears came from the sheer terror of not being there for her. For missing out on two years of lost teeth and evening tuck-ins. Her asking me to scratch her back for just another minute, all the times I should have obliged. I also cried tears of frustration with myself. I was angry with myself for loving her so much, for wanting to not go because of her instead of wanting to go do this for us all. I should be grateful. I should be proud. I was only devastated.

When we told her together, she was elated, “Mommy is going to space!” It almost made it worse, because she couldn’t grasp that I would be gone for so long. She loved my job, my passions now hers too. When we reiterated that I would be gone for about two years, she told us that we were joking. There is no such thing as mommy leaving for so long, it had to be a joke.

After those talks, I noticed her being angrier with me. She started talking back and slamming doors. Once she pinched me mid-argument about not putting her dinner plate away. I was shocked she wanted to hurt me; she wanted to cause me pain. I couldn’t react I just looked at her, puzzled. She scowled at me, nose scrunched up until she ran to her room crying. The times she woke me up in the middle of the night were not for snuggles, but for tears.

“Mommy, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I pinched you, mommy” cried my little Mila. I would reassure her, tears streaming down my own cheeks in the dark. She curled up between Leo and I. So many nights we looked at each other over her small frame, snoring away between us. What have I done to this family?

The last few days, she grew quiet. I grew quiet too, aware and terrified that my voice would crack mid-sentence. I would hide in our bathroom to cry alone, using our grey hand towel to muffle the sobs. I could barely ask her what she wanted for dinner. I moved slowly, treading as gravity seemed heavier, but time marched on ahead at full speed.

And now I sit here; our goodbyes were so lethal to my heart, I wish I could have blocked them from memory. I know she sits with Leo not so far away, waiting and watching to see us take off as we will blast through the Earth’s atmosphere. Mila had been silent the whole car ride to the space station. She looked out the window, and I just watched her in the mirror. Please look at me, I begged her mentally. She never did.

My miniature best friend had cut me off in our last moments together. It felt cruel and haunting, but I knew she did not know what else to do. I had to remind myself that she would one day understand why I was leaving. Two years was too long, is too long; I would miss so much of her life.

Her little frame shook under my arms as I wrapped around her. “I love you so much, Babygirl, I hope you know that.” She stayed limp against my chest as I tried to nuzzle up against her hair and her cheeks, smelling her one last time before I departed. After Leo and I kissed, his hands pressing the sides of my face during our goodbye, Mila started beating me with her fist, “I hate you, Mommy. I hate you! I hate you!” Her face red, unrecognizable, she could not handle the grief, the new feelings of torment and loss that were happening to her. Leo held her, trying to calm her down.

Walking away from them was the hardest thing I have ever done, harder than any physical or mental test of my past, harder than the pain of childbirth. Leo carried her away as she reached out, screaming at me, “I didn’t mean it, Mommy, please don’t go, I’m sorry mommy, I didn’t mean it! Don’t go, please don’t go!” My face was hot, my nose ran loose with snot. I wished to embrace her and tell her that it was all a cruel joke; Mommy won’t be leaving; she will stay here for all time.

I now sit in a white stale room. All the signatures needed have now been completed. I wish someone would just either send me home or send me to space, time no longer making sense as it wrestles in my brain, talons across already raw wounds.

The press, my comrades, and our associates all waited for me out the one white door ahead. I practiced my smile with each exhale. Standing, I pressed my hands across my jumper, patted my body, de-wrinkling all my invasive nightmares and jumper folds, before opening the door to head to our space shuttle. They told us to focus on our breathing. To focus on the task ahead. I am an astronaut; I have a duty, a privilege, and an impossible choice that was never a choice at all.