40.

The Melancholy of Departure

Giorgio De Chirico, oil on canvas

International Space Station, 11 June 2015

My alarm jolts me from sleep just after midnight. I’ve managed to sleep a few hours, thanks to a small dose of sleeping meds, and I’m ready to begin my two hundredth day in space. The last one. Still half asleep, I put a swab under my tongue and start the four-minute countdown. It seems like any other morning, I think as the swab absorbs my saliva. While I’m coming to, I scroll through the last few emails that arrived during this brief night: best wishes for the re-entry, see you soon on Earth. Then, perplexed, I see an email whose sender I don’t recognize. How strange, especially on my last day. I only receive email up here from people I’ve personally authorized. I read the mysterious message – and burst out laughing. It’s full of irreverent humour and signed by a popular American television comedian. Scott has recordings of this comedian’s satirical night show sent to him regularly, and since his arrival in March, we’ve often watched them together.

Still laughing, I open the doors of my crew quarters. Scott, who’s also just getting up in the crew quarters next to mine, knows immediately that his surprise has been successful. I am so touched. In order to arrange this gift, he must have had to ask more than one favour. We float together towards Columbus, both of us in a good mood, and I take a blood sample, one of my last donations of bodily fluids to science. I’m also scheduled to collect further urine samples, and that will continue until we close the hatch. Last night, in what must have been one of the most grotesque Space-to-Ground conversations in history, Huntsville tried to get Scott and me to coordinate our toilet trips so that we went right after each other. This way we’d only have to open the freezer once to put in our samples. We looked at each other, amused, and promised to give it our best.

Around one, we gather together for the last time for the morning DPC. Then a quick breakfast, and we’re back at work. I confess that I’d hoped the final hours before departure would be calmer. I’d like some space to process the conflicting feelings I’m having, to welcome and honour them. But the schedule is pretty full. After the DPC Scott and I are together again in Columbus, where the blood samples have completed their cycle in the centrifuge and must now be prepared for re-entry in the Soyuz. We’re somewhat perplexed by the packing instructions for the samples, and we quickly realize that this will not be straightforward. The new Twin Study experiment, in which Scott is participating along with his twin brother Mark, requires a series of specific samples and the packing instructions are quite confusing. We’re in for a long clarification call with Huntsville. It’s not even two in the morning, and for the second time today, Scott earns my immense gratitude, offering to look into this on his own.

I go to collect the stem cell samples from the freezer, pack them up and place a green sticker on them. I take a photo, which will be downloaded in Houston and sent to Kazakhstan to facilitate identification during the retrieval of urgent cargo. I then float towards our little spaceship, where Anton takes the package. He’s still very busy putting everything in the descent module, in the limited space under the seats and in nooks and crannies free of equipment – all according to strict instructions received from the ground, to ensure that the vehicle’s centre of mass corresponds to the calculations for our re-entry. Smiling and calm as always, Anton assures me that he’s got things under control and doesn’t need any help. So I get my personal radiation dosimeter out of my trousers, I put it in the pocket of my Sokol suit and float away. I’ve decided to take advantage of Scott’s gift of time to make a last tour of the Space Station.

It’s a long, silent goodbye. I try my hardest to stabilize in front of me one of the mini video cameras we have on board, but I’m trying even harder to imprint every last detail on my memory, starting with all the simple things we use every day on the ISS: the omnipresent rolls of duct tape and Kapton tape attached by a strip on the handrail; the blue microphones fixed with Velcro next to every radio panel, metres of thin white cable floating sinuously from them; the green and cobalt blue transformer bricks for the laptops; video cameras and still cameras with all sorts of lenses. I start my tour in Columbus, with its large, square bags tied to the floor with bungees; because there are so many activities, and storage space is always scarce. Then it’s JEM, the largest and neatest module on the Space Station, organized with a meticulousness that’s entirely Japanese; and its small airlock, where I installed some mini-satellites with my own hands, and they’re now out there, in open space. Node 2, with my crew quarters, now almost empty and sparkling clean: a few days ago I removed the lining and took down the ventilation system to hoover up a surprising amount of thick, grey dust that had accumulated in the ducts, fans, grilles and acoustic cladding. The Lab, which I love to pass through with one vigorous, well-judged push from both arms, arriving at the other side without brushing against a single thing – not the bicycle, nor the back-up robotic workstation, the CPR bench, the potable water dispenser. Node 1, with its sloping table that doesn’t get in the way. The little Airlock, dark as always when it’s not in use, with two large white suits inside, looming out of the darkness like sleeping, anthropomorphic machines, hooded so that their helmets won’t get scratched. Node 3, with the T2 treadmill on the wall, and where my blue running shoes are no longer in their usual place, stuffed under a handrail. My beloved Cupola and the PMM in its new position, overflowing with white bags of every size that create nooks and crannies throughout the space; the torch in my pocket has often proved useful in there. And then on towards the Russian segment, with its small, round hatches and pastel colours – except at the spherical junctions where there’s a whiff of heavy industry, rather than sterile space laboratory.

When I reach the end of my tour in the Service Module, I do a slow cartwheel. Just because I can. And soon I won’t be able to. It’s this that I want to imprint in my memory above all, in every fibre of my body, something that can’t be filmed on video: the feeling of floating, the pleasure of moving without the least bit of effort, and of inhabiting space in three dimensions. The freedom to eat upside-down, on the ceiling. For no reason except that I can.

I transfer the video to a computer, knowing that it will be downloaded automatically to Houston in the next few hours. Without giving it much thought, I add ‘Restricted’ to the file name, a word used to identify films of a private nature which aren’t for distribution. There’s actually nothing private about a tour of the Space Station, but I feel like this was my moment, something personal between me and the magnificent space home that has hosted me for 200 days.

That done, I go around erasing all traces of my presence on board. From Node 3, I collect the remains of my personal hygiene items, and apart from things that could be useful to Scott, I throw the rest in the rubbish. I check to make sure the camera and iPad are fixed firmly to the wall of my crew quarters with bungees. They’ll be Kimiya’s when he comes on board. I throw away the sleeping bag and the two or three remaining items of clothing. All I have now are the clothes on my back.

At six, I meet Anton in the Soyuz to execute a few activation procedures and checks. We are gradually awakening our spaceship. Hatch closure is scheduled for seven. I take a few snacks and a couple of water packets in the orbital module. I put on my nappy, and somehow manage to close my trousers over it. I glance over Columbus one last time, as if to reassure myself that I’ve left it in order, though I realize that my time on board is over, and I can do nothing more. Over these 200 days I’ve felt responsible for the whole of the Space Station, but as a European astronaut I’ve certainly had special regard for this bit of Europe in space.

There’s just time for me to go to my crew quarters to post one last farewell message on my social media profiles. I’ve prepared a photo showing me in the Cupola in a farewell gesture: ‘So long, and thanks for all the fish.’fn1 When I’m done, I log out of my PC. Over the next few days Houston will remove all of my data and personal settings.

At a little before seven, we meet in the narrow tunnel of the MIM-1 module.

We said our goodbyes last night during our final meal together. Now that we’re under rigid time constraints and being observed by the video cameras, we exchange only brief sentences of thanks and best wishes. But our hugs are warm and tight. I know very well that I’ll rarely see Gennadi, Misha and Scott in the future. Yet I’m sure we’ll always be bound through affection and unquestioned camaraderie, something time and circumstance can’t undermine, since we’re all part of each other’s memories, with our extraordinary shared experience in the background. More than the view of Earth from the Cupola, the pleasure of floating in the air, the satisfaction of carrying out everyday activities that accomplish the goals of many people’s efforts and hopes – more than all that, I’m going to miss the privilege of being a member of the International Space Station’s crew. My stomach clenches when I realize that though life on board will continue, I won’t be a part of it.

I don’t have time to linger on this thought. Anton, Terry and I are now in our Soyuz, and the hatch, already closed, is a clear reminder of a packed sequence of events that now demand our complete attention and will end in approximately six hours when we hit Kazakh soil. After the first leak checks, we help each other put on our Sokol suits. I get in and then I use my hands to keep still, and let Anton tie and knot. When the last hook is fastened on the suit, I wash down two final tablets of sodium chloride with plenty of water, and that completes my dose: 5g in the fifteen hours before landing. This is the doctors’ recommendation to ensure that my body retains water, partially remedying the drop in blood plasma volume. It happens to everyone in space and can provoke symptoms of orthostatic intolerance, the sense of vertigo that affects astronauts who have just returned to Earth when they try to stand up too quickly.

I fold my clothes any old way; they’ll burn during the re-entry along with the whole of the orbital module. I grab a snack to eat while I wait for Terry and Anton to change, and then I push myself into my seat in the descent module. It occurs to me that these are my last moments of floating freely. Once I’m strapped in place, I won’t move until we arrive on Earth.

Strapping yourself into the seats of the Soyuz is always an exercise in patience and contortion, even more so without the weight that keeps your body down. I pay particular attention to the straps that keep my knees in position and will stop them hitting the control panel at the moment of impact with the ground. Despite the physical effort of strapping myself in, I don’t feel too warm yet, and I delay switching on the suit’s fan, enjoying a few more minutes of relative silence. Even after 200 days of free-floating in the Space Station, I still feel comfortable in my seat, with its custom liner shaped to my body.

I pick up the checklist. The various sections are divided by coloured plastic tabs: ‘Emergency Descent’, ‘Program 5’, ‘Ballistic Descent with Computer Failure’. I hope I won’t need any of these pages today, that I’ll need only those for the nominal re-entry, rather boringly called ‘Descent Number 1’. Next to the critical events, I’ve pencilled in the times Moscow sent last night. The first is at 11.44.40, when TsUP will transmit the command for activating the navigation computer, our little spaceship’s brain. I glance at the clock on the control panel display, noting that there are only twenty minutes left. The clock shows Moscow time. I haven’t even left the Space Station, but I’m already in a different time zone. Soon I’ll fall within the borders of a country, someone will bring me my passport, I’ll be given a stamp in one airport and a stamp in another. I’ll be a foreigner everywhere on Earth, except on one small continent which we fly over in ten minutes. How odd, when you come to think about it. I’ll have to get used to it again.

Anton is still closing the hatch between the descent module and the orbital module when the navigation system starts up. I hear Dima’s familiar voice from TsUP requesting an update. I confirm that the accelerometer and the angular rate sensors are on, that the propellant tanks are pressurized. All indications are nominal. As soon as Anton is strapped in, we do the leak check on the Sokol suits, and then on the hatch between the descent module and the orbital module. After the Soyuz separates into its three components, it will be this hatch that protects us from the vacuum of space.

The leak check takes a long time, a good twenty-five minutes. At a certain point, Terry says abruptly: ‘Samantha, all I can say is this: it’s shocking how strong gravity is!’

When we’ve finished all the checks and waited for what seems like a very long time, we hear the voice of the flight director from Moscow on the radio, as he takes Dima’s place at the microphone.

‘Astrey, at the scheduled time of 13.18.30, send the command to open the hooks.’

I’ve prepared the command already. All I have to do is press the execute button. When the time comes, I make the short countdown out loud: ‘Three, two, one. Command sent!’

With a touch of the baton, I put an end to our mission on the International Space Station.