The Anniversary of My Death

 

In truth, I had forgotten about this anniversary until I saw the story in the paper.  In that instant my coffee cup was suspended before my lips, my eyes looked without seeing and I realized that, had I had my way, I would be looking at the anniversary of my death.

            On January 28, 1986 the Challenger space shuttle lifted off from Cape Canaveral, Florida at 11:38 a.m.  Seventy-three seconds later it blew up in a starburst of destruction, killing all the crew members on board.  They did not die instantly.  The crew was probably alive during the ever-accelerating plunge toward the ocean.  It is the impact with the water that killed them—that would have killed me.

On board was a crew as diverse as American itself.  Included in the group was America’s first teacher in space, Christa McAuliffe, a 37-year-old teacher.  As far as I was concerned, she had taken my place.  I had applied for the Teacher in Space Program and had been sorely disappointed when I was not chosen to represent Missouri.  I knew and applauded Chris Brown, science specialist from the Ferguson-Florissant School District, who was selected.  Chris was a great science teacher and a leader in the community.  His school district abutted mine and our paths crossed more than once.  It was just that going to space was my life-long dream.   NASA’s Teacher in Space program was my chance. 

            Frankly, I was shocked to discover that in a very large school district (18 elementary schools, 3 junior highs and 3 high schools) I was the only teacher to apply.  In 1986 I was 39 years old, just two years older than Ms. McAuliffe.  Like her, I had children; my two daughters were in their early teens.  It is an age when girls need their mother.  That thought, even these many years later, makes my throat tighten. 

            I was not in my classroom when the Challenger exploded.  I was at the district headquarters, serving on a science textbook adoption committee.   I found out later that our Superintendent, a man most people thought of as crusty, cold and acidic, had called a hasty conference in his office.  Six head office suits were gathered in his small office all to answer one question: who will go in the board room and tell Louise?  In the end, a consultant I had worked closely with on many projects said the job was his.  He came in and quietly asked me to come with him.   In his semi-private cubicle, he gave me the news about the Challenger: a total loss, a total disaster, no hope for any recovery.  Oh, and by the way, there was a reporter from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch that wanted to talk to me.

I did not cry.  All I could think was that if I had died my daughters would never have forgiven me.  This was both a bizarre and irrational thought, but that was my initial reaction.  I went through the press interview and the rest of my day on autopilot.  I remember none of it.  When I got home my husband asked if I had seen the explosion.  I said I did not.  In fact, I refused to watch the launch for days.  When I finally did, I finally cried.

Our lives turn on a dime.  We may or may not have control over our own desting.  I know that I would not have wanted to miss the life I have, my family, my children, my grandchildren, my many friends, the laughter and even the sorrows.  But Christa McAuliffe would have said the same thing. 

Through it all, I keep the faith.