The re-entry phase

The world we find on return isn't always the same one we left

I’ve been obsessed with space for as long as I can remember. I came of age during the Space Shuttle years and presumably watched the Challenger explode live on TV, although I have no memory of my own of this happening. In talking about it with my parents and brother recently, we all sort of shrugged because yeah, that’s probably what happened.

This was not my first time seeing a Space Shuttle. We saw, as a family, Discovery, where it is housed at Udvar-Hazy near Washington, D.C.

The first time I saw a Space Shuttle in person I had chills. I wanted to touch it because it had been to space. I still find myself looking at the stars whenever I have a chance and chasing celestial phenomena when the opportunity presents.

So, I’m almost ashamed to admit that the Artemis II mission kind of snuck up on me. And when I first heard that NASA was sending people to the moon again, I thought, Why?

Listen, there’s been a lot of news and announcements and events to keep up with and my basic human brain can’t keep up with all of it. Still, I didn’t miss the launch, and I anxiously murmured through the whole thing.

Turns out, you never forget the trauma of watching a spacecraft explode just after liftoff. (Or upon re-entry. RIP Columbia astronauts who often aren’t remembered in the same way as the Challenger ones are.)

What a delight it was, then, to celebrate this mission, to tune into the pure joy of four astronauts who literally went farther into space than any humans ever and took us along for the ride.

And that’s why I sat glued to my phone for hours during their re-entry: I couldn’t believe it was really real until I saw all four of them emerge from the capsule and touch down safely on the aircraft carrier.

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Last week, I had my first massage since December. What had been a monthly practice fell off the schedule during my recovery because the surgery resulted in a large scar on my abdomen. And lying on your stomach hurts sometimes in that case.

It’s been about a month since I was cleared to resume normal activity as tolerated. Two weeks ago, I jumped back into pickleball with enthusiasm and maybe a little too much optimism. But it felt good to be moving my body again and testing its abilities.

My massage therapist didn’t know anything about what I’d been going through, so as she worked on me, I filled her in, and when the hour was up, I felt disoriented. Maybe it was my need for water or the return after months away to a practice that had been so crucial to my self-care, but I felt like a different person when I emerged from the massage center.

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How does a person go back to “normal” after traveling through space for 10 days? How do you become a person living on earth again after seeing the planet from more than 200,000 miles away? Do you miss the life you had in the spacecraft? Are you always wanting to go back?

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It was a long winter in some ways. And a short one in others. Temperatures rose for a few days and we got an early taste of summer here in Pennsylvania. My days are filled with work and practices and sporting events and prepping for graduation and summer plans.

I find myself sometimes longing for the days when I was lounging on the couch, reading book after book, watching all the shows I could find.

I do remember, though, how much I wished I could be out there rather than stuck in here. Are we always wishing we could be somewhere else? Some time else?

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I don’t know everything that is involved with coming back to earth from space. I know there are medical tests and adjustments the body must make going from zero gravity to gravity. Do you look at the night sky differently if you’ve been up there? Is there always a piece of you that feels like it’s missing?

Re-entering my life after surgery and recovery was minimally challenging in comparison, but I still find myself stumbling through activities that I would have navigated smoothly before. Is this the new normal? Or am I still just recovering?

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When I got home from my massage, after swinging by the school to pick up our son from track practice, I noticed the lilacs had begun to open. The bush had been budding for a week, maybe, but the heat, I think, pushed them to bloom.

Those weren’t there when I left, I thought, as I pulled into the driveway.

I had a million and one things to do when I got into the house: start dinner, change clothes, unpack my bag, drink water, and oh my gosh, would you look at the kitchen? I wanted to attack it all at once, but more than that, I wanted to walk out to the porch and sniff the lilac blooms. I remember how last year I kept meaning to bring some inside but then they died off before I could do it.

Last year, the season for lilacs was short. I can’t guarantee it will be longer this year with the way the weather rises and dips in double-digit increments.

I literally stopped to smell the flowers.

Because what if they were gone tomorrow?

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This is my continued approach to recovery now that I’m in the re-entry phase: I won’t forget what I experienced. (How could I? It changed me in a way that can’t be undone.)

I can’t pretend like what happened didn’t affect me on multiple levels. And I won’t stay in that experience. I will re-enter my life with every reasonable safety measure in place, and I will stumble into the life I once had and maybe find a new way to walk through it.

How could I choose to wash the dishes when the lilacs are blooming for such a short time?

How can I ever look at my life the same way again?