Last week I interpreted for a Russian cosmonaut as she took her mastery (exam) on dealing with emergency situations onboard the International Space Station. Cosmonauts and astronauts need to know how to react quickly and decisively to any emergency, and after many years of experience of space flight, their instructors have developed memorized responses and procedures for dealing with the four main types of emergencies: fire, depressurization, toxic spill, and ammonia leak. Before any crew member is allowed to fly, they train extensively on reacting to these situations. Then they must demonstrate their knowledge and work through each emergency scenario without assistance from the instructors or even their crew mates. And so last Friday, I got to interpret for Anya Kikina, who was going through this exam for the first time.

The group that followed Anya through each module watched her don and doff ammonia, gas, and fire masks, play-talked with her as she simulated calls to the ground, and graded her on her procedure execution. The group included the Chief Training Officer, two environmental control instructors (these were her main teachers in preparing her for the mastery and now – they were the main graders), a third instructor and a fourth one who played the cosmonaut’s other crew members. Sort of. Because of course the test was for Anya and so the other pretend-crew member was pretty useless by design. I was there translating as she worked through all of the steps and procedures, interpreting directions from the instructors, her calls to the Mission Control Centers, some of the procedure and notifications on the hardware, etc. etc.

It was a special honor to be part of this rite of passage. The emergencies felt real and the cosmonaut was all geared up and hyper-focused on the situation. I had to be focused too, because if I messed up in the translation, it would have counted against her. I also had to be careful to not accidentally give anything away or drop reminders since I knew all the answers. During the first depressurization scenario, Anya instinctively handed me one of the gas analyzers used to check for the presence of carbon monoxide and other dangerous compounds in the air. The analyzers are heavy and awkward to carry, so I ended up dragging mine around during the entire case as we rushed from module to module, looking for the “fire” and turning off equipment which could potentially have been feeding it. Later when we were “hit” by a micrometeoroid and the station was rapidly losing pressure, Anya asked me to grab the spare manovacuometer. At some point we were trying to determine where the leak in the station might be and we had to use a specialized expanding screen (called an HDI) which is set across the hatchways between modules to see in which direction the air is being sucked. Anya’s pretend crewmate had her hands full of notes and notebooks and so, in a moment of spontaneous silliness and quick thinking, Anya turned to me and quipped, “You’re being promoted. Grab the HDI, open it up and let’s see where the air is going.” It was easier for her to talk to me quickly in Russian than to wait for the translation. Besides, the station was losing precious oxygen and unless the action was quick we were all going to die.

Absorbed in reacting to a spaceflight emergency scenario, working through the steps, fighting for the safety of the crew and of the International Space Station, I almost forgot that we weren’t in space. Standing there next to Anya, holding one MV as she held the other, I also almost forgot that I wasn’t a cosmonaut. It seemed that had the cards of life been played just a little bit differently, it would have been me getting ready: I also know the answers, we are the same age, we are both fit, both smart, both quite decisive. And, we are both Anyas.

I caught myself thinking this and stopped myself short. No. This proximity is an illusion. It is a brief moment of apparent closeness, synchrony, where the oscillations of two distinct lives accidentally hit the same phase and amplitude. But then they must expand further and further away from each other, just as they were so far apart only weeks ago. For Anya Kikina, it is a lifetime of decisions, actions, battles, drive, determination, that has led her here. As the only female cosmonaut in an industry dominated by men, Anya has had to fight tooth and nail to arrive last month at the Johnson Space Center, working through some of the final training she will have before flying into space within the next two years. As for myself, a lifetime of decisions, predilections, accidents and twists of fate has led me here as well, but in a very different capacity. One of us may have made greater sacrifices, and one of us has children. One of us will get to look at Earth from 416km away and another will soon hold a PhD in World Arts.

After she passed her exam with flying colors and I finished my interpreting, Anya and I were walking out of the building together, happy and relieved with her success. I congratulated her and told her, “See, and you were worried.” “Yeah,” she smiled, “I was a little anxious and now I’m so glad it’s over with.” She grinned at me and patted my back, “Thanks for your support, you’re my friend in battle.” I grinned back. We walked outside and got to her car – it was parked in the “Astronaut – Reserved” parking space. Mine was a bit further away.

We said our see-you-laters and drove off. She probably went to her hotel to study for the next day. I went to pick up my daughter from the gym and headed home to start dinner.