Cathy and I winter camping in 1985.
The Astronaut Killer
So much of being an astronaut is about what’s next: the next step in a checklist, the next test, the next mission . . . Astronauts and doctors are trained to block out any worry about what might come in the future and look only at what’s happening right now. Focus is critical. On a mission, that approach keeps us alive and helps us operate in an environment where a single distraction or disruption can be deadly. It’s also a mind-set I’ve learned as an emergency physician and use in my day-to-day life. Wherever I find myself, I try to be fully present in the moment and see each challenge as a new opportunity.
It’s that sort of thinking that started me on the path to becoming an astronaut in the first place. I graduated from medical school in 1983 and the same year finally received my master’s degree in physiology. I learned that it’s what you do when you don’t succeed that determines whether you will one day succeed. At graduation I won the Wood Gold Medal as the top clinical student and the psychiatry prize. I was now a university scholar, and the physiology department had put me on the dean’s honor list for my master’s degree. There had been some discussion about having me submit a thesis for a PhD, but after my previous failed oral presentation, I didn’t want to go through a PhD defense. It was time to move on. I was thrilled to be a physician and ready for the next stages of my clinical training.
Cathy and I moved to Ottawa—our first time living together—so that I could start my residency in family practice and emergency medicine while she finished her pilot instructor’s rating and taught flying lessons. She had her commercial pilot’s license, and there was no better way to build the hours she needed to become an airline pilot than through teaching others how to fly.
My family practice residency went by in a blur of rotations and postings in various departments. Some of them, like emergency medicine, anesthesia, and critical care medicine, I considered potential career paths. Others showed me what I didn’t want to do.
Cathy and I winter camping in 1985.
Cathy and I married in May 1986 and I became a fully licensed doctor a couple of months later. That July, I started another residency with the Royal College of Physicians and Surgeons of Canada, specializing in emergency medicine at the University of Toronto. Cathy started working as a flight instructor at Buttonville Municipal Airport in Markham, Ontario, and continued building hours and experience to get a job flying with Air Canada in 1988. She was one of only a handful of women pilots with the company. She loved her job. I admired her skill as a pilot and was immensely proud of her for achieving her goal. She was also a member of the Ninety-Nines, the international organization of women pilots, and in 1991 the two of us went to the Women in Aviation International conference in Florida. The event was a chance for Cathy to spend time among her peers and mentors. I was happy to tag along as a proud “491/2er” to have a chance to experience a part of her world.
One of the speakers at the conference was Linda Godwin, an American astronaut who had flown in space just a few months earlier. Linda is a renowned physicist—and, like Cathy, a member of the Ninety-Nines. During Linda’s mission, she and the rest of the crew ran into some unexpected equipment malfunctions. They solved everything and ultimately had a very successful mission. My steps got faster and faster the closer Cathy and I got to the auditorium, and when Linda started speaking, it brought me back to my unfulfilled childhood dream.
Linda’s speech was wrapping up when Cathy turned to me and said, “Why don’t we try to talk to her?”
Without any hesitation I said, “I’d love to!”
What a fantastic opportunity! How many times in your life do you get a chance to speak to an astronaut who has just spent a week in space and orbited the earth ninety-three times? I decided to make the most of the moment. I took a spot in the line.
“Hello, I’m Dave Williams,” I said when I finally reached Linda and shook her hand. I was excited to meet such an amazing woman and was interested to learn how she went from being a physicist to joining the space program.
“I’m an emergency physician,” I said, “but I’ve been interested in becoming an astronaut for a long time.”
“That’s wonderful!” said Linda, nodding encouragingly. “And you’re from Canada? Good news—from what I understand, the Canadian Space Agency is going to be recruiting a new group of astronauts next year.”
I barely remember the rest of our conversation. Without knowing it, Linda had handed me an incredible opportunity.
“Maybe I’ll apply!” I said to Cathy later.
Cathy laughed. “Yes, you should.”
As soon I got back home, I called the Canadian Space Agency.
“I understand you’re going to be hiring Canadian astronauts shortly. Where should I submit my résumé?”
“Thank you for your interest,” said the manager at the CSA. “But we are not hiring any astronauts right now.”
I felt disappointment right in my gut. Maybe Linda had false information?
“Dave, send the agency your résumé anyway,” Cathy said.
She was right. What was the worst that could happen? They’d simply send me a rejection letter saying what I’d already heard on the phone. I took Cathy’s advice and sent in a letter of interest and my résumé.
Months went by and I didn’t hear anything. So much for that, I thought. Then, in January 1992, I was reading the Globe and Mail and saw a half-page ad: “The Canadian Space Agency Seeks Astronauts” read the headline. Linda had been right after all! Even though I had already applied, I didn’t want to risk not following the process outlined in the ad, so I sent another letter and an updated copy of my résumé.
The selection process for astronauts is a long one. Months can go by between stages, and you can drive yourself crazy obsessing over what’s next or what people are thinking about you. I decided that the best thing I could do while waiting was to enjoy the ride. It helped that I had a fantastic career and plenty to keep me busy. I’d recently become the director of the emergency department at Sunnybrook Hospital, and I loved the work. I felt I needed to talk with Tom Closson, the hospital’s CEO, just to let him know what I was up to.
“Tom,” I said. “I’ve applied to be an astronaut.”
Tom looked at me. His eyebrows rose into an arch, which made him look surprised, although he’s the kind of man who’s rarely surprised by anything. But this time I think I had genuinely caught him off guard.
One second . . . five seconds . . . ten . . . then: “Are you kidding me, Dave? Is this a joke?” Tom saw me as a dedicated doctor, which I was.
“It’s no joke, Tom,” I said. When he realized I was serious, he shook his head and sighed.
“Okay, tell me more.”
“Well, believe it or not,” I began, “ever since I watched Alan Shepard lift off into space when I was a kid, I’ve dreamed of becoming an astronaut. And the Canadian Space Agency is recruiting, so . . . so I submitted my résumé.”
Tom crossed his arms. A look of total skepticism filled his face. “What do you think your chances are?”
“There are around 5,300 applicants.”
“In that case, I don’t have to worry. I don’t think I’m about to lose you. Just keep me in the loop. And good luck to you.” Tom’s “good luck” sounded highly cautionary. It sounded more like “Dave, don’t get your hopes up.”
But as the months went by, I dutifully kept Tom updated with whatever news I received. When I made it to the third phase alongside 370 other candidates, I passed the news on to Tom.
“Huh,” he said, those eyebrows of his arching up even farther. “Keep me in the loop.”
One hundred.
“Keep me in the loop.”
Fifty.
“Really? You’ve made the fifty cut?”
Cathy, meanwhile, seemed not at all surprised that I was still among the shrinking candidate pool.
“Dave! That’s fantastic! What happens now?” she asked.
“The agency is going to hold a meet-and-greet and panel interview for the applicants.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“It should be, but I’m curious about who the other candidates are. I’ll bet they’re all really qualified.”
“Don’t worry about them. You can only be yourself. And enjoy the event.”
When I got to the event, I was surprised by the sheer number of reporters gathered in the lobby. There was widespread interest in the recruitment program, and it looked like every media outlet in the country had come out. I managed to slip past the cameras with a couple of quick interviews, the buzz from the reporters’ voices and the hum of the cameras dimming as I closed the door behind me.
As I entered the main room, I saw the Canadian Space Agency logo displayed on the wall behind the microphone stand, and it reminded me of my dream of one day looking down at the earth from among the stars. I took a seat at one of the chairs and introduced myself to the man sitting beside me.
“Hi, I’m Dave Williams.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Pretty incredible how many reporters are outside, isn’t it?” I said.
“It’s packed out there.”
“So what do you do?” I asked the man.
“I’m a test pilot. My background is in oceanography, but I’ve served in the air force for fifteen years now.”
My stomach dropped. A test pilot and a scientist? If everyone there was that qualified, what chance did I have? I excused myself and wandered around the room, chatting with the other tremendously qualified candidates. There were military personnel in full uniform, a number of engineers, and a couple of academics. Everyone was so exceptionally talented, I had to wonder, Should I really be here? Am I good enough?
An official from the CSA began the briefing, so I took to my seat again.
“Thank you all for joining us today,” the official began. “We’ll keep things brief so you have more time for interviews with the media. You’ll each be scheduled for an interview with a seven-person panel sometime during the next two weeks, and we’ll also be contacting you to set up a flight medical. Please note that there will be a documentary crew present throughout this period. The crew may ask you questions about your experiences, so feel free to answer them openly.”
If I’d had a camera pointed at me just then and had been asked what I felt, it would have been an easy, one-word answer: intimidated. I didn’t have much time to dwell on my thoughts, though, because as soon as the briefing was over, we went straight into a press conference. The doors opened up and the media flooded in. The reporters had their microphones in our faces and were asking rapid-fire questions: “Why do you want to be an astronaut? What skills would you bring to the job?”
“I can field that,” said one of the candidates, jumping up and angling himself in front of a camera. Another candidate’s head whipped around as this one, too, sought an open microphone. Was this what was expected? Were we all supposed to elbow our way past each other for time in front of the camera? I’m just not that guy. I couldn’t help but think of my mother. One thing that has always frustrated her is my reluctance to share my accomplishments or good news. I simply found it weird to call her up and say, “Hey, look at this great thing I did.” I’d rather be out doing things than talking about things I’ve already done.
I answered a couple of questions. Then, when the reporters stopped coming my way, I quietly moved along. I was leaning against the wall off to the side when a man I didn’t know came over.
“Wow, they’re pretty competitive, aren’t they?” he said, hands clasped behind his back.
I turned toward this man to get a good look. His age and his glasses made it clear he wasn’t one of the other applicants.
“Are you one of the candidates?” he asked.
“I am. I’m Dave Williams.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Bruce.” He gestured at the other candidates in front of the cameras. “You’re not going to get in there?”
“No,” I said. “I’ve already answered a couple of questions and I’m happy to answer more, but I’m more interested in getting to meet everyone here.”
My new acquaintance then changed topics. “Hey, have you heard about the plans for a new Canadarm?” I could hear the excitement in his voice.
Of course I had heard of it! “I’ve been following the Canadarm development since its first flight on Columbia. Actually, a few months ago, Linda Godwin gave a great talk about how her crew used the arm to deploy a new observatory during their mission.”
“There’s a new one under construction, to give the Canadian Space Agency a role in future missions to help build the Space Station,” Bruce said.
I couldn’t believe I’d found someone who was as excited about the recent space program developments as I was. “I’m looking forward to seeing that arm in action,” I said.
“You sure I’m not keeping you from all that?” he asked, nodding at nearby reporters.
“No, that’s fine, thanks. If the press wants to talk with me, they’ll find me.”
A few weeks later I got a call from the Canadian Space Agency—I’d made the final round of twenty candidates. It turned out that the man I’d been talking to was Bruce Aikenhead, head of the Canadian astronaut office. Bruce had probably been there to observe how the candidates reacted to the competition and to the press. A number of candidates hadn’t spared him a second glance. Perhaps he remembered our discussion. Once again, a chance conversation potentially provided me with the opportunity of a lifetime.
When I broke the news to Tom, I thought his eyebrows were going to leap right off his face.
“It sounds like I might have to hire a new director after all,” he said.
Later that night, Cathy and I broke down my chances.
“Twenty applicants left, and they’ll narrow it down to six,” Cathy said. “So you have, what, a 30 percent chance? No problem.” I looked up and caught her huge smile.
“Something like that,” I said. The odds weren’t exactly in my favor, but Cathy’s confidence buoyed me as I headed into the final stages.
The final weeklong round of tests and interviews were far more extensive than the previous ones had been. For the first time all the candidates from across the country would be gathered together. We met in Ottawa where we all stayed at the Westin hotel. Every applicant in that group of twenty was impressive in his or her own way. There were robotics experts, geophysicists, pilots, and other physicians. The CSA could have hired any one of them, and they would have done an outstanding job representing Canada in space. I was proud to be part of the group.
When I arrived for our first meeting, everyone was friendly, but there was a competitive atmosphere underneath it all, which built as the week wore on. Our first briefing was at 6:00 p.m. on a Sunday. We met in a conference room where a lavish buffet dinner had been set out. The day had been a whirlwind; many of us had arrived from out of town earlier in the day. There had been little time to think, never mind eat, so the smell of the food made our mouths water. But when the introductory remarks started, everyone’s attention turned away from the food and toward the front of the room.
“Thank you for joining us this week,” said William MacDonald (“Mac”) Evans, the vice president of operations at the Canadian Space Agency, who was leading the initial briefing. “Congratulations on making it this far. You’re all accomplished candidates, and we know that it is going to be a difficult selection process with so many qualified applicants. Initially we thought we needed six astronauts, but after a careful review of the flight opportunities, we’ve decided to select just four astronauts to join the program.”
Four candidates? That meant that only one out of every five of us was going to become an astronaut. Everyone’s chance of getting selected had just dropped. I fought to stay calm.
Silence engulfed the room. A hand sprung up. “With the Space Station program on the horizon, won’t the CSA need six astronauts?” asked the candidate.
Mac shifted his weight. “We think it’s important to have a realistic flight opportunity for each of the astronauts we hire. I recognize the announcement said there were six spots available, but in light of recent developments, we’re able to select only four final candidates.”
I watched the applicants around me do the same math in their heads as I had done. I saw the pilots in the group glancing at each other, trying to count how many people they’d be competing against, and the engineers did the same thing. We each had at least a 20 percent chance of securing a final spot, but the odds would be different depending on each person’s background. They weren’t going to pick four pilots and no engineers, or vice versa. I was about to start counting the medical professionals in the room and calculate my specific odds, but I stopped myself. Dave, you’ve gotten this far in life by competing only against yourself, by always trying to do your best and not worrying about how others are doing. Just be the best version of yourself that you can be and maybe that will be enough. And if not, oh, well, you’ve got a great career as a physician.
The briefing was winding down. It was now around 7:30 p.m.
“We’re going to wrap up, but just one final point,” said the CSA representative leading the talk. “At eight a.m. tomorrow, we’ll begin your blood work for some of you. Those tests require fasting for twelve hours beforehand. See you tomorrow!”
With that, the briefing ended. So much for the buffet. Lucky for me, I didn’t feel like eating. I went to bed that night with a rumbling stomach and a buzzing brain. But hunger couldn’t dim my excitement.
The next day started with a battery of medical tests, then a press conference. After our blood work, a small group of us were led into a room where a doctor and a few assistants awaited.
“We’re conducting a basic treadmill test,” said the doctor. “We’ll bring you in one at a time. Please follow the instructions and we’ll have you out of here in no time.”
I’m a doctor, so I knew the treadmill test was a straightforward evaluation of heart function. Still, I figured the others should know what they were getting into. Once the official doctor left, I turned to the group. “Just so you know, none of us are going to beat the treadmill.”
I was greeted by a series of strange looks.
“What I mean is, this isn’t a fitness test. We use this test all the time in the hospital. It’s meant to screen for underlying heart disease and possible abnormal heart rhythms. Don’t worry about trying to outdo the machine. Once you get to the target, it’s better to get off as quickly as possible. If you stay on longer, something might turn up on the electrocardiogram, and you don’t want that.”
Some in the group seemed skeptical. They probably thought I was trying to mislead them or set them up to fail. One candidate tried to beat the treadmill and finally had to be assisted off after sprinting up a full incline to no avail. The treadmill always won. In subsequent astronaut selections the CSA added fitness testing to the process, but in 1992 the treadmill was a clinical test not a fitness test.
I completed the treadmill test, and it was time to get ready for the press conference. It was held in one of the large conference rooms at the hotel, and that was when I started to feel the competitive pressure. The media approached the candidates they thought were most likely to succeed. One came over to me and asked, “Which one are you?”
“I’m Dave Williams, the emergency physician.” I said.
“Oh, you’re not the one I’m looking for,” the reporter said, turning away to search for someone else.
It certainly made me wonder where I stood in the group.
Over the course of the next few days, all of us underwent trials in other areas as well. We did presentations to the panel on various topics. I gave mine half in English and half in French, as I thought it was important to demonstrate proficiency with both official languages. Psych evaluations—all smooth there. I was bonding with the other candidates, and while I didn’t know where I stood in the eyes of the selection committee, by my own standards I was happy with how I was doing.
On Wednesday morning I was scheduled for the most important medical test for astronauts: the eye exam. The test is known as “the Astronaut Killer” because of how many candidates are ruled medically inadmissible after failing the eye test. Needless to say, none of us looked forward to our turn in the ophthalmologist’s chair.
I leaned against the wall as I waited in the examination room for the eye doctor. I was feeling somewhat confident, as I knew my eyesight was 20/20 and I’d already passed an aviation medical for my pilot’s license. I was still getting used to my role as the patient, not the doctor, and fighting the desire to take over. I knew that a single finding from this test could wipe away all the good that had come before it.
“Good afternoon, Dave,” said the doctor when he finally entered. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m great, thanks.” Positive thinking, I told myself.
“Excellent. Let’s get started, shall we?” He gestured at the slit lamp and took a seat across from me. “Would you mind putting your chin on the strap and looking into the machine?”
“How long have you been working with the Canadian Forces?” I asked, blinking hard as he turned on the light. All the medical tests were conducted by CF physicians under the leadership of Dr. Gary Gray, a military flight surgeon.
“I haven’t been working here that long. In fact—and you might not remember this—I was a resident at Sunnybrook while you were an emergency physician there. You referred a few patients to me when I was covering the emergency department.”
“Really? What a small world!” I immediately felt more at ease.
“It’ll look even smaller if you get to see it from space!” he said. “I gather you’re still at Sunnybrook?”
“I am.”
“That was such a great place to train. I remember—”
The doctor abruptly stopped talking. When a doctor stops talking in the middle of an examination, it’s generally not a good sign.
“What did you find?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Oh, come on, I’m a doctor. I know how this works.”
He sighed. “I can’t say anything conclusively. But . . . there’s no easy way to tell you this . . . it looks like you might have benign paving stone degeneration.” As a physician, I knew immediately that he was talking about a degenerative condition of the retina found in the periphery of the eye. It was listed as a “degenerative retinopathy” on the list of disqualifying medical conditions.
I sat back in the chair and stared at the ceiling in silence. I recognized that the condition itself wasn’t serious. But if the doctor was right: I would likely be disqualified from the selection.
The doctor sensed my disappointment. “Nothing is for sure yet and there are only a few small areas of the eye that are affected. I’m going to send you to a retinal specialist, one of the best in Canada. We’ll see what he says.”
I appreciated the doctor’s optimism, but as I left the examination room, my mind was clouded. I was so close to my goal! To find out my own body might betray me was difficult news to digest. While he arranged a visit to the specialist, I carried on with my remaining interviews, albeit with a new sobering clarity. It hit home that I had to savor every moment of this experience, because it was probably about to end. This was it: chances were I was never going to be an astronaut. It’s okay, Dave, I told myself. You’re fortunate enough to have a great job, hobbies you enjoy, and a loving family. I had such a great life, so I vowed not to be too sad if I was disqualified from the astronaut program. Life would go on, and it would still be great; for now, the possibility of becoming an astronaut seemed remote.
Later that week I received a call from Dr. Gray. The retinal specialist had spoken with his NASA counterpart. “Given that your case of degeneration is so mild, it might not be disqualifying,” the specialist said. “We’ll have a medical review board evaluate the high-resolution retinal photographs and make a decision by the end of the week. Perhaps it will work out for you.”
I thanked him for the update. There was hope once again: hope that my eye condition would not disqualify me, hope that I might actually be good enough to be selected. Now I knew firsthand what it felt like to be a patient and to receive difficult news from a doctor. It would not be the last time or the worst health news I would receive from a doctor. For now, I put my emotions aside—all except hope—and kept working toward my goal.
The week passed by in a blur of morning runs by the Rideau Canal, presentations, and meetings with officials and astronauts from the CSA. Shortly before I left to go home, I learned that my eye issue had been officially cleared, which was a huge relief. But I had no idea how the rest of my interviews and tests had gone. All I knew was that I’d given it my best shot. I’d done everything in my power to present the best version of myself possible.
Life went back to normal. I returned to work, and two weeks later I was teaching an advanced cardiac life support course to a room full of nurses and doctors at Sunnybrook when my pager went off—pretty common for a doctor. I excused myself and went to one of the phones outside the lecture theater to call the hospital operator.
“You have an outside call,” the operator said. “Remain on the line and I’ll connect you.”
It was 12:40. I’d been informed that the CSA would start calling candidates at noon. But was this the CSA or was it Cathy, or my mother, or a colleague? I would soon find out.
The call was connected. “Dave, it’s Arline Marchand from the CSA. Do you have a moment to chat?” asked the voice on the other end of the line.
Are you kidding? There was no call more important to me at that moment! I tried to hide my excitement. “Of course,” I said. “Happy to take a few minutes.”
“We’re pleased to let you know that you’re one of the four candidates to be selected.”
What? Really? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It was incredible. “That’s fantastic! I was worried that I wasn’t selected, as I thought you’d call the successful candidates first,” I said.
“I started to, but then I began to receive a number of calls from other candidates, so I’m a little delayed in calling you. Sorry.”
“That’s fine. I’m thrilled,” I responded. “Thanks very much. It’s an honor to be chosen.”
I learned the names of the other candidates who’d been selected—Julie Payette, Chris Hadfield, and Rob Stewart. I was in a daze for the rest of the conversation.
“There’s going to be a public announcement next week,” the CSA representative said. “But until then, we’d ask that you don’t share this news publicly.”
“Can I let me wife know?”
“Yes, but don’t tell anyone else. We don’t want the news to get out before the official announcement.”
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll look forward to hearing more details.”
After the call, I took a moment to gather myself. I thought back to my childhood heroes, the pilots and astronauts who’d flown into space before me. I thought about the extraordinary things they had done and seen, and how I was one step closer to my dream of following in their footsteps.
Then I called Cathy to deliver the news. She picked up on the first ring.
“Dave, did you hear?”
“Yes, they called. I made it—I’m going to be an astronaut.”
“Amazing! I’m so proud of you. Congratulations! There was never any doubt in my mind you’d be selected.”
I’d had so many incredible things happen in my life, enjoyed so many great days, and overcome more than a few hurdles, but the news still seemed unbelievable.
“It’s a great day,” I said. “Let’s celebrate later. I’ll be home around five thirty.” But in my head at that moment I was thinking about another day altogether, the day I was lucky enough to meet Cathy.