Margaret Dean - Endurance - A Year in Space, A Lifetime of Discovery

“Of course,” he answered. “What don’t you understand?”

This only increased our fascination with the ice cream truck and the linguistic and cultural differences it symbolized. To this day, many years later, when my former colleagues and I get together and talk about old times, especially training in other countries, sooner or later someone will bring up a picture on his or her phone and start reading out loud from it: “Beginning was from only one car….” Laughter inevitably ensues, sometimes followed by crying from laughing so hard. The dessert truck poem reminds us of the “lost in translation” aspect of being Americans in Japan, but it also reminds us of that intense period of training for an ISS expedition, and the way these shared experiences brought us together.

AS WITH most marriages that begin with the groom thinking about how to get out of the ceremony, my marriage to Leslie was not a happy one. Leslie was a good mother, and she continued to take care of things on the home front so I was free to work demanding hours at NASA, including frequent travel. After Samantha was born, I periodically tried to initiate conversations about our relationship and the possibility of ending our marriage. These conversations never went well. Our talks always ended with Leslie saying that if I ever tried to leave her, she would destroy my career and I would never see my child again. I was shocked and saddened that she would threaten me this way, but I also understood that emotions were running high and we all had a lot at stake.

We decided to try counseling. I was reluctant at first because I thought it might affect my chances to fly in space. I had been asked in the process of interviewing with NASA whether I had ever sought counseling or psychiatric help, and, having truthfully said no, I didn’t want that to change. Astronauts never knew exactly why we got flight assignments or what kept us from getting them, so the instinct to avoid negative attention or controversy was deeply ingrained. But I agreed because I thought it might help, and Leslie wanted to try. The day of our first appointment, we were waiting in the reception area when the door to the counselor’s office opened and out came a senior management astronaut and his wife, both of them wearing the stony expressions of people who have been through an emotional wringer. He and I silently acknowledged each other, and although I wondered whether having been seen there would have consequences, I at least knew it wasn’t unheard of for an astronaut to seek help for a troubled marriage.

The counselor wasn’t able to help us much, and our marriage continued to deteriorate. Meanwhile, I dropped the subject of our marriage each time Leslie threatened me. After Charlotte was born, and “child” changed to “children,” the stakes were even higher. So we settled into a semi-friendly arrangement in which she took care of our children and home and I pursued my career. I was gone a lot, which minimized the opportunities for tension and fighting, and we both liked entertaining and having people around, so even when I was home there wasn’t much chance for serious drama. We continued this way for years.

In the spring of 2009, I was back in Japan. I’d been looking forward to the trip, but once I was there, I felt crappy and the weather was gray and dull. I had a bad cold, was exhausted from jet lag, and was in a foul mood the whole time. I dragged myself through classes and training sessions all day and then collapsed in my tiny economy hotel room at night. It was then that I realized that despite being unhappy in Tsukuba, I didn’t want to go home to Leslie. I would rather be on a business trip feeling miserable than in my own home.

I visited my grandmother the day after I returned to the States. My father’s mother, Helen, whose home had been such a sanctuary for Mark and me when we were boys, was now in her nineties and living in a nursing home in Houston. She had taken a turn for the worse, and while I sat with her, holding her fragile hand, I thought about what a comforting presence she had been when we were little, when she took us to the botanical gardens and sang us to sleep. That had been forty years ago, and now age had robbed her of her vitality. Where would I be when I was her age, decades in the future? If I was lucky enough to be alive still, what sort of life would I have to look back on? How was I going to spend the rest of my time on Earth?

The very next day, I called Leslie from work and let her know I would be coming home early and that I needed to talk to her alone when I got there. At home, I told her I would always respect her as the mother of our children, and I would always take care of my daughters, but I wanted a divorce.

As I had anticipated, she repeated her threats and reminded me she had evidence that I had been unfaithful.

“I can understand that you’re angry,” I said, “but this is what I’ve decided. I hope you can move on. But do what you need to do.”

I’d hoped to have an amicable split, for the benefit of our daughters. Samantha was now fourteen, an especially vulnerable age to deal with this kind of family upheaval, and Charlotte was five. I thought it was important to show the girls that adults could work through their problems calmly, cooperatively, with generosity of spirit, and with an emphasis on the well-being of the children. This was not to be.

When Samantha and Charlotte got home from school, I gathered myself and spoke to them as calmly as I could, trying to make things seem cordial and positive, though they could tell from their mother’s face that this was nothing of the sort. Samantha was more upset than Charlotte—she was old enough to understand what a big change this was going to be. I tried to assure her that I would do everything I could to keep her life stable. Charlotte didn’t seem very interested in the conversation and spent the whole time playing with a rubber band—wrapping it around her wrist, unwrapping it from her wrist, her bangs hiding her eyes. After a while, Leslie asked her if she had any questions.

Charlotte’s round little face tipped up at me. She met my eyes, and I tried to read her expression. Then she held out the rubber band to me and asked, simply, “Is this your rubber band?”

This gesture was typical of Charlotte. She was trying to change the subject away from the topic that was causing everyone so much pain, and at a moment when I was so concerned about my daughters and how their world was about to be blown apart, she was trying to give me something.

When I put my head on the pillow that night, I felt more at peace than I had in months, maybe years. Maybe I would never fly in space again, but I was going to try to live a life I wouldn’t regret when I was old.

Leslie carried out one of her threats by moving away with the children, but in the end our divorce didn’t affect my career as I’d feared it might. She is still angry at me for ending our marriage. Yet when I started seeing Amiko, Leslie was surprisingly warm toward her. Whatever animosity she continued to feel toward me, she didn’t extend to Amiko, which a lot of people might have done in her situation.

Not long ago, Leslie and Amiko were consulting on the phone about some travel arrangements for Charlotte, when Leslie said to her, “I want you to know that you have always been great to co-parent with. My girls just love you, and that makes me love you too.” Amiko hung up the phone with tears in her eyes. She has been through a lot with my family, and these kind words meant the world to her. I know some people who, after going through a difficult divorce, say they wish they had never married their spouse or had never even met him or her. I can honestly say I have never felt this way. Leslie has been an important part of my life, and though I wish we could be on better terms, I have never regretted my decision to marry her, and I am eternally grateful for Samantha and Charlotte.