Finding Strength After the Challenger Tragedy
Twenty-five years ago our country lost a dream. This woman lost so much more. How did she go on? Faith guided her.
We all remember it. January 28, 1986, the day the NASA space shuttle Challenger, carrying a seven-member crew, exploded 73 seconds after liftoff. An unspeakable tragedy for the nation, for the world. And for me. My husband, Dick Scobee, was the commander at the controls, and for a long time I wasn’t sure if I would ever be able to get that day out of my mind.
Nine o’clock, on the morning of the launch. I stood on the rooftop viewing area of the Kennedy Space Center in Merritt Island, Florida, with our son, Rich, daughter, Kathie, and her son, our first grandchild, Justin. I looked out at the cloudless sky and shivered; it was exceptionally cold for Florida. In the distance I saw the shuttle. Icicles hung from the launchpad. This would be Dick’s second spaceflight. He was an experienced Air Force test pilot, had served in Vietnam and knew how to fly more than 45 types of aircraft, but I was worried. I was fixated on those icicles.
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I thought back to our last conversation, earlier that morning. The four of us were staying at an apartment Dick had rented for us. He was staying in crew quarters. It was still dark when he called. “It’s freezing out there,” I said. “Is the launch still on?”
“They’ve given us the go-ahead,” he said. “The engineers knocked off icicles they thought might be a problem. They showed us pictures of the rockets blasting off in snow. It’s safe, they said.”
“Okay,” I sighed, not completely convinced. “I love you so much.”
“See you in a week,” Dick said.
Now here we were, awaiting the big launch. Finally, the countdown began. T-minus ten, nine, eight…liftoff! The floor shook with the raw power of millions of pounds of thrust. We cheered as the shuttle climbed sunward atop a great plume of smoke. Rich put his arms around his sister and me. I turned and smiled at Justin in Kathie’s arms. I imagined Dick in his calm, take-charge mode.
All these years later I can still vividly see what came next: The Challenger exploded. Flaming debris burst into the perfect sky as the orbiter shattered into a million pieces. Oh, God! No! Not my husband! Why, God, why?
My legs wobbled. Rich grabbed my arm to hold me up. In stunned silence, I looked at him, at Kathie. No words came. In one terrible instant our lives had been completely and irrevocably changed. I kept trying to turn the clock back to that last conversation about icicles, as if I could change things. Yet reality kept imposing itself. I was a widow.
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A bus took us to crew quarters. There, officials said what we already knew. “The crew’s dead. They could not have survived an accident like this.”
That night, NASA arranged for us to return to our homes. I dreaded going back to Houston. What was home without Dick? Without my husband, my partner, my best friend and companion for 26 blessed, wonderful years?
Somehow I put one foot in front of the other. I made decisions mechanically—memorial services, arrangements for visitors. Inside I was dying, stunned, uncomprehending. I managed to struggle through the weeks following Dick’s funeral. Even as the tragedy faded from public view I felt as if I would never really live beyond that moment when Challenger disappeared from the sky.
One afternoon in April, I opened my front door to flashes of lights and questions from reporters about the investigation into the disaster. I froze. “If words could bring back my husband, I would speak volumes,” I said, then closed the door and fell to the floor, sobbing. My neighbors Barbara and Fred helped me pack a bag and took me to their home.