Artemis II, The Carroll Crater, and the NICU Families Impacted
I can’t stop thinking about the Carroll crater. Moments after setting the record for furthest distance ever traveled from Earth by humans, the Artemis II crew called down to Mission Control to discuss two unnamed craters they identified. The first, they suggested, should be called Integrity, in honor of the mission.
When it came time to name the second, astronaut Jeremy Hansen said:
“A number of years ago, we started this journey, our close-knit astronaut family… lost a loved one. Her name was Carroll. The spouse of Reid, the mother of Katey and Ellie. It’s a bright spot on the moon, and we would like to call it ‘Carroll.’”
I don’t know them, but it’s impossible for me not to feel their grief. I never met Carroll, of course, but I know the kind of love that makes you want to place someone somewhere permanent, and I am overwhelmed by the scale of memorializing her through a bright spot on the moon. Like so many people following the mission, I eagerly waited for splashdown and hoped desperately for a safe return. As soon as they landed, my first thought was “they loved her to the moon and back”.
When doing more research about Carroll and her life, I quickly discovered she was a NICU nurse, which makes this honor even more impactful. The moon, which has historically been a symbol of feminine energy, fertility, and cycles of life, death and rebirth, has a bright spot named after a woman with two daughters who dedicated her life to serving new babies and their parents at their most vulnerable time. I considered writing a poem about it, but that’s it. That’s the poem. What else is there to say?
In my career as a doula, none of my clients’ babies have needed care in the NICU, but my sister did when she was born. Around 6 hours after birth, she was transferred to a different hospital for surgery on her bowel. The surgery went well, but she had to stay in the NICU for 8 days before she could go home.
I called my mother to discuss her experience (without letting her know it was for this; Hi Mom!) and the first thing she described was how much one of the nurses positively impacted her. My mother’s Carroll was named Holly.
She told me how Holly helped her learn to nurse, how she would gently encourage her to think of something happy to help her milk come in, how she reassured her over and over that her baby was in good hands. “We’re just the stand-in,” she told her. “You’re the mom.”
My mother needed that reassurance because she felt as if she was missing out on her first days with her child, but Holly made sure she knew that her identity and relationship with the baby was solid, despite her needing care. This was strengthened further when my mom was scared to hold such a small, fragile baby, and Holly encouraged her. This made space for bonding in the middle of something so overwhelming, and it helped my mom build a strong foundation with my sister.
When I asked her what the hardest part of the experience was, she said leaving at night and going home without her baby, but Holly helped her through that too.
What stays with me is how often this kind of care goes unnamed. The people who step in at the most fragile moments and hold families together long enough for them to find their footing again don’t leave anything permanent behind in the traditional sense. There aren’t monuments for every NICU nurse and still, their impact endures in quieter ways. Their care is felt by the parents who go on to feel steady in their role, and in the babies who are held, fed, and brought home to grow up and thrive.
The Carroll crater feels different because it makes that care visible. The moon has always carried meaning for people because it is something constant you can look to no matter where you are. For a NICU parent, I imagine there are nights where you leave the hospital without your baby and step out into the dark not quite sure what to do with yourself. But there the moon is, something steady to look at when everything else feels uncertain. Now, somewhere on that surface, there is a bright spot named for someone who spent her life caring for babies just like yours.
There’s something grounding in that, I think. The idea that while you are sitting in a hospital room, or driving home without your baby, or waking up in the middle of the night to pump and wait, there is a place that holds the memory of someone who understood that kind of fear and tenderness. You can look up at the moon and know that kind of care exists, that it has always existed, and that you are not the first person to move through this kind of love and uncertainty.
Most people won’t have their name placed on the moon, but there are Carrolls everywhere. There was one for my mom named Holly. These nurses are experts at meeting fear with steadiness and at reminding you who you are when everything feels uncertain.
So I love the Carroll crater, not just because its naming was an act of love and devotion, but because it gives Carroll Taylor Wiseman a way to continue serving the people she was passionate about helping even though she has passed on. I can’t think of a better legacy than that.
