Up and Down (39 page)

“Perhaps he’s just feeling the weight of his responsibilities,” I offered.

“I don’t think that’s it.”

We spoke until the digital timer on my console had ticked off nearly our full five minutes. Then we said goodbye and I moved back to my own station on the opposite side of the room. I watched my monitor for a while and listened in on the main audio feed linking the
ISS
and Houston. At one point, Lee Hainsworth floated into view as he went about his duties. Landon was on to something. He did not look well. Even the less than crystal-clear reception on my screen showed that his face was flushed and he was perspiring. I also saw him lean over, close his eyes briefly, and wince.

The scheduled live in-orbit crew broadcast started on time that evening. All ten of the
ISS
occupants gathered at one end of the main section of the space station and arranged themselves in two
tiers, not unlike a kindergarten choir on stage for the annual Christmas concert. Except in this case, they were all simply floating at slightly different elevations so they all fitted into the head-on camera shot. The Russian
ISS
commander introduced each crew member and described their respective roles. I watched the
Aeres
commander throughout. He held it together quite well. If you weren’t really looking for it, you probably would not have noticed that he was putting on a brave face and wasn’t really himself. The only one who looked worse was Eugene.

Each crew member had a turn with the microphone to offer their reactions to being on the space station. Most everyone’s comments were predictable and sometimes crossed the line into cliché. Martine Juneau spoke in French for most of her time, which I thought was a nice touch. When Landon had the mike, she spoke briefly and finished with this.

“Since I was a young girl, I’ve wondered what it must be like to be up here in space and look down upon the blue and white ball that is our home. I’ve seen hundreds of shots others have taken of Earth from space. We’ve all seen them. Well, I can report with first-hand authority that the photos just don’t cut it. When you stare back at Earth from up here, your ability to take in its full beauty falters. It’s just too much. You simply cannot imagine anything more stunning, or more important to protect. I think it will leave its mark on all of us up here.”

She then passed the mike to Eugene. I don’t exactly remember just what he said, but he sounded like Foster Brooks in the
middle of his standard inebriation routine. There was lots of swallowing, silent burping, and vocal changes as he struggled to keep the nausea at bay.

By day four, Eugene had come into his own. He finally seemed to have acclimatized himself to space and no longer looked one shallow breath away from projectile spewing. By this time, he and Landon had completed their mission experiments. Commander Hainsworth got a little better – before getting a lot worse. It was the classic one step forward, two steps back routine. As I watched the daily proceedings on the space station as crew members went about their assigned tasks, I noticed more than one animated conversation between the commander and Landon. I had no audio for these but I could tell Landon was asking him questions and trying to examine him. He seemed to be a reluctant patient. Once, she even pointed to the ceiling and when he looked up Landon quickly put both of her hands around his neck. I learned later she was checking for swollen glands. By the look on his face, he was unimpressed with the subterfuge.

In my twice-daily chats with Landon, she could talk of nothing else. She was worried about him. He thought it was just a severe bout of space sickness, though he’d never been affected before. She thought it was something else.

“He’s lost his appetite and has severe pain that radiates across his abdomen,” Landon explained. “But he won’t tell anyone,
thinking it will eventually stop. And he certainly won’t tell Houston.”

“Well, with us talking about it here, Houston may well know about it now,” I commented. “What’s your diagnosis?”

“I haven’t been able to conduct a full examination, but based on my limited and not always helpful conversations with him, I think it’s one of three things: food poisoning, constipation, or acute appendicitis. It doesn’t look anything like space sickness, particularly when we’ve got Eugene as the space sickness poster boy for comparison.”

On day six, I saw them again off in a corner in heated discussion. The combination of Landon’s finger-pointing and nonstop talking, and the look of acquiescence, or perhaps surrender, on the commander’s face made me think she’d had a breakthrough. He let her feel his abdomen and I could see her trying to demarcate what I assume was the pain zone. She shook her head, made a final declaration. He nodded and they both floated out of my view. Ten minutes later, they floated back into the picture and headed for the microphone. He took the mike and turned to face the camera. Most of the other crew members were otherwise occupied but a couple of them had noticed that something was amiss. It was like I was watching a silent movie but I had no difficulty piecing together what was happening. Then the commander spoke through a grimace. His voice sounded strained in my headset.

“Houston, station, I had hoped never to have to say these words, but Houston, we have a problem.”

“Station, Houston, copy that. What have we got?”

“What we’ve got is a sick commander here. Sorry about this. Lots of cramps in my belly, sometimes severe, and bit of a fever. I thought it would pass but it’s gotten worse over the last two days, not better.”

“Copy that, station. We’ll have the flight surgeon on the blower in a minute.”

Landon took the mike from Commander Hainsworth.

“Houston, I’ve done a preliminary examination and I’ve ruled out food poisoning. We’ve all had the same food and everyone else is fine. Besides, the commander has eaten very little in the last two days. I don’t think it’s space sickness either. The commander didn’t encounter it in his two earlier missions, and it probably would have passed by now anyway. Even Eugene has finally got his space legs. We can rule out constipation or any kind of bowel obstruction. As of this morning, according to the commander, his bowels are functioning A-okay. So my best guess is an inflamed appendix, which is not the diagnosis I was hoping for.”

“Station, Dr. Phillips here. Symptoms please, and don’t leave anything out.”

Landon kept the mike and responded.

“It’s classic appendix. Abdominal pain, loss of appetite, slight fever, nausea …”

“Sounds like zero-G Space Adaptation Syndrome to me,” interrupted Dr. Phillips.

“I wasn’t finished,” she snapped. “It’s not space sickness. His pain began in the centre of his abdomen, right around the navel. On day two, the pain moved downward and to the right, and hovered right over McBurney’s point. And you know what that means, doctor. The nausea stopped on day three. He had a colossal dump this morning but the pain is still intensifying and radiating out from the epicentre at McBurney’s point. And the fever is hanging in, too.”

“Could be a bowel tear during evacuation,” Phillips said.

“Negative. I did a brief internal and there’s no sign of blood and the pain isn’t quite in the right place anyway. I don’t think it’s bowel.”

“What about food poisoning?” asked the doctor.

“Weren’t you listening, doctor? We’ve all had the same food, and I’ve confirmed that the commander had nothing in addition to what we all had. He hasn’t snuck a tainted cookie when we weren’t looking. It’s not food.”

I could tell Landon was getting angry. In fact, anyone hearing the back-and-forth could tell she was getting angry.

“You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?” said Dr. Phillips, his irritation evident.

“Doctor, I’m with the patient. I’ve been observing him for the last four days. I’ve examined him. And, in case you’d forgotten, I’ve been practising medicine for more than forty years. Diagnosing acute appendicitis is not always easy. But this seems a pretty clear-cut case. We’ve got to get him down now.
If his appendix blows and we’re still in orbit, well, you know the prognosis as well as I do. And looking at him, I think we’re closer to rupture than we want to be.”

“Station, Houston, meteorology is not good for Florida, hurricane activity in the gulf. We’re checking alternative sites now. Stand by.”

The commander wasn’t looking good. His eyes closed several times during the exchange with Houston and the furrows in his forehead seemed almost permanent. Landon waved Martine and Eugene over and spoke to them off-mike. They took the commander’s arms and guided him back towards a quieter area of the space station. Landon was growing impatient. Jefferson Rand, the pilot of the
Aeres
, was now beside her, looking concerned. Who could blame him? He’d have to handle the re-entry and landing of the shuttle himself if Lee Hainsworth was down for the count.

“Station, you can give him some pain meds. You’ve got morphine on board,” said Dr. Phillips.

Landon shook her head and raised the mike.

“Whoa. Hang on. I know he’s hurting right now, but dulling his pain will make it tougher for us to know when we’re getting close to rupture. I’ll give him some codeine but let’s hold off on the morphine. As cruel as it sounds, we need the pain to stage the diagnosis.”

There was silence for several seconds.

“Understood. But he needs to be on a close watch,” replied Dr. Phillips.

“No kidding. As soon as you let me go, I’ll be on him the whole time,” said Landon. “Look, time is very short. We gotta get him down, now.”

There was a pause that seemed long, but wasn’t.

“Station, Houston, we’ve agreed here to shorten the mission and bring you down
ASAP
. It’s blowing too hard at Kennedy, so it’s out of the play, but we are clear for touchdown at Edwards. We’ve just missed the re-entry window for California so we have to go around again. Can you hang on for another hour and a half?”

The pilot took the mike from Landon.

“Houston, station, copy that. We need that time to get ready here anyway.”

“Station, Houston. Okay you are go for separation and re-entry. Better get busy.”

I watched as Landon headed out of the shot, presumably to check in on the patient. Another split screen appeared, giving me a view of the commander floating horizontally with Martine and Eugene on either side of him holding one arm each. Landon appeared and started unzipping the commander’s coveralls. He was conscious, sweating, wincing, and trying to bring his knees up. It was obvious, he was in severe pain. Landon was now looking at his abdomen and asking him questions as she moved her hands to different spots on his midsection. She spent most of her time focused on a spot in the lower right quadrant. I saw her look up and shake her head several times. She spoke some
more to the commander and then to Martine and Eugene. They looked very worried. My side started to hurt in sympathy. I just felt helpless, but there really wasn’t anything a
PR
guy could do in this situation.

Forty minutes later, Landon looked increasingly agitated. I saw her check the digital countdown clock on the wall. Most of the
Aeres
crew were already on board the shuttle, getting ready for separation. Only Eugene and Landon were with the commander and would move him aboard the shuttle at the last possible moment. I shuddered at the thought of having to wrestle him into the pressurized space suit for re-entry. Landon hovered over the commander asking a continuous stream of questions to which he could only nod while grimacing, occasionally pointing, and clenching his fists. Landon did more head-shaking. Finally, with about twenty-five minutes to separation, she grabbed the headset mike on a console next to the patient and pulled it on.

“Houston, put the doc back on. We’re not going to make it here.”

“Phillips, here.”

“Doc, based on his symptoms, we’re either very close to rupture or it’s already happened. Patient is in severe pain. We don’t have any more time. If it’s about to blow or has already burst, we have no time to get him down. We’re too late for that. Peritonitis in space is not how I want to close out my medical career. The toxins rushing through his abdomen could kill him before we touch down. You know that, right?”