Been There, Done That

by Al Roker Deborah Roberts

  “You know what this means to me. You need to tell them you can’t do this. This interview means far more to me than it does to you.” That was the last thing I said about it that night. There was nothing more left to say.

  Al and I silently fell into bed.

  I hated being angry with Al, but I felt that this was a career-defining moment and he was somehow keeping it from me.

  Maybe he cared more about his career than about me.

  I wondered if I could look at him the same way after this.

  The next day Al kept his appointment to do the interview. But first, as I would later learn, he did something that would forever change my feelings for him. Before he would allow the cameras to roll, he pleaded with the singer to do two interviews—a short one with him, then a short one with me. His producer nearly fainted, but it was an unbelievable gesture of love in the midst of a professional crisis. Unfortunately, the singer was stubbornly resolute.

  “No. If I am going to give an interview at all, it’s going to be one time,” she responded. She explained that she was already on the verge of laryngitis and didn’t have it in her to do this more than once. Al knew that if he didn’t get the interview right there and then, she wasn’t going to give one at all, and that would have been a total disaster for everyone. So he did what he had to do.

  What my husband did that morning was above and beyond the call of duty and showed just how much love he has in his heart for me and our relationship. He selflessly put my feelings and my career needs above his own. He knew exactly what that interview meant to me, and had it been possible, he would have walked away from it. But his hands were tied. This interview was going to happen with one person only: Al. It wasn’t his fault any more than it was mine that she decided to go someplace else. But that kind of unshakable support meant more to me than I could have ever expressed in the moment, and surely it spoke to the solid foundation on which our marriage sits.

  While that was going on without my knowledge, I did what I always do when my back is against the wall. I dug deep and found my reserves, and I came out swinging—I still needed a story for 20/20 the next night, and I was going to get it.

  As the saying goes, “When one door closes another opens.”

  I remembered that gospel star BeBe Winans knew Whitney Houston and might be able to help me find another personal friend to interview. I had met BeBe years before, at the opening of Oprah Winfrey’s girls’ school in South Africa. We had gone for a jog together and become friendly. When I reached BeBe, who was distraught over the loss of his friend, I got an amazing surprise. Not only had BeBe known Whitney far better than I’d thought, but he’d spent years traveling and hanging out with her. He had a treasure trove of intimate stories about the fallen singer.

  As it turned out, BeBe was a true “get”! And, lucky for me, he was reluctantly willing to share his memories of their time together.

  God is good.

  Hours later, BeBe was sitting across from me in an interview suite, regaling me with happy, painful and poignant stories about his dear friend. He shared how Whitney bristled at being called a pop sellout and how he sarcastically advised her to “cry all the way to the bank.” For an hour, the camera crew laughed and got teary listening to BeBe’s riveting stories. I had scored a home run.

  Everybody at ABC was thrilled, and my interview aired to rave reviews.

  Though Al got the bigger star, in the end, I got the better interview.

  Later that evening, before 20/20 aired, Al and I drove up to the country to unwind. It had been a trying week. We were both emotionally and physically worn to the bone. We were also still shaken from the intense experience of rivalry and competition between us. I could tell that Al still felt hurt by my insensitive take on the situation, and I definitely felt wounded by his decision to go ahead with his interview. Of course, I had no idea that he had already gone out on a limb for me by asking her to do a second interview.

  We decided to record 20/20, as we both were too weary to watch it that night. The next morning I went for a walk in the crisp, cold air of early spring. The sky was blue and the birds were singing. I began to think of all we had been through that week and quickly realized how fast everything at work fades away after the deadline passes.

  As I walked among the glory of nature, I was reminded that I was home and blessed with peace and love and a beautiful family . . . and a remarkable husband who loves me in sickness and in health—for better or for worse—till death do us part.

  No interview could ever be more important than that.

  How could I have been so ridiculous to equate a score at work with my beautiful life?

  This is what really matters.

  No famous singer can steal that from me.

  Ever!

  I returned home and pulled Al in close for a long embrace.

  “I am so very sorry,” I said. “You matter more to me than any story. And I know the same is true for you. Forgive me for ever doubting that.”

  We smiled and held each other tightly.

  Later, after we watched my interview with BeBe, Al turned to me and said, “You know, I thought my interview was good, but it wasn’t that good.”

  God bless my husband. He always was and always will be my biggest cheerleader. I realized that we were on the same page: What we have together is far greater and more powerful than any outside force that seems monumental in the moment.

  Landing a great story and beating that deadline are a thrill and a victory for a journalist. But jobs will come and go. Our real success as a couple is being together forever—and we have this great family, life and relationship to cherish.

  Al is fond of saying, “Always keep your eye on the prize,” meaning, don’t focus so much on the little things that you lose sight of the big picture. Boy, did that resonate for me that day. It doesn’t mean you’re not going to have moments where you feel thoroughly upset with each other or totally stressed out in your relationship. Believe me, you will.

  Lots of them.

  When you do, it’s important to cling tighter than ever to each other and the love you share. Remember, your relationship is far more valuable than anything else you will gain outside of it for the sake of work or career.

  AL AND DEBORAH

  Sometimes You Have to Get Away

  We know a couple who have a daughter Leila’s age who, as of a few years ago, had never taken a vacation without their child.

  NEVER.

  They felt such guilt at the mere thought of leaving their only child behind that they simply didn’t.

  Whenever we shared stories about romantic getaways we had taken, we could see that the wife was hesitantly taken with the idea. But the husband seemed to find the whole thing beyond the pale, so we stopped trying to coax them.

  But we’re convinced it’s the magical glue that holds a marriage together. For career couples with children, alone time isn’t a luxury; it’s a necessity if you have any hopes of keeping the passion alive. Now that our kids are older, they accept the idea of the parental getaway, but they still can’t quite understand it. Once when we couldn’t arrange an actual out-of-town trip, we planned a weekend staycation at New York City’s fabled Carlyle Hotel. When we told the kids that our last-minute getaway was ten blocks from home, Leila asked why we were spending good money on a hotel.

  “You just want to get away from us,” she suspiciously opined.

  “Bingo!” Al said.

  We think it’s healthy for our kids to know that Mommy and Daddy need Mommy and Daddy time, even when Nicky asks, with those big puppy-dog eyes, “But without us . . . ? Why . . . ?” As much as we love being with our children, there is tremendous value in having a few hours of uninterrupted time to actually hear what the other person is saying. Imagine finishing a sentence or story for once! No whining or fighting in the background. Even though Deborah strugg
les with a little mom guilt, whenever we get away, we both realize that it’s a good thing for us to do from time to time.

  Sometimes we have the time and luxury of flying off somewhere. Other times we head to one of the many country inns within driving distance of New York City. And then there’s the bliss that can be found just a short cab ride away, once we made the huge discovery that people living in the city can actually book rooms in those fabulous hotels we read about. So now and again we reserve a hotel room and maybe get tickets to a show without any worry about getting home to let the dog out or scolding one of the kids about staying up too late.

  Just last year we made another brilliant discovery. We actually have a weekend house that still functions even when kids are not scampering around! Our house, tucked quietly behind acres of pine trees, is our getaway spot from our otherwise hectic and overscheduled lives. Since both of us travel so frequently for work, it is a joy to have a retreat to spend quality time with our children and each other without the pressure of being social if we don’t want to be. We get to sleep late, play board games and watch movies without any obligations or commitments other than being together as a family.

  It had never occurred to us before that the most obvious getaway location was our charming house in upstate New York, because we always went there with our kids. Well, one particular summer weekend, we had made plans to go up with the kids when it turned out that both of them had activities they desperately wanted to do in the city. A lightbulb went off. What if we got our babysitter to come in for the kids and headed up there alone?

  Alone!

  We suddenly became giddy with excitement. It was as though we had been given a last-minute trip to Paris.

  Since the day Leila arrived, we’d never been there without children. We’d bought the place about a year before she was born, anxious for a serene spot to escape the city madness. Nestled in the woods just off a gravel road, the house was an oasis of calm and tranquillity for two people who traveled and worked under the stress of deadlines. We’d sit and read, cook, watch movies, swim or just be. It wasn’t until we got there that weekend that we realized how much we missed that time together there.

  The car ride up was strangely peaceful. No backseat hoopla, no arguments, not even a jab about Al’s driving.

  We were so used to the kids running around the house, dashing in and out, us yelling at them to close the doors or stay away from the pool, that it seemed suspiciously quiet when we first arrived. But there was something so liberating about being in our own space without having to worry about the kids, their needs or anyone else’s schedule. We put on our sweats, plopped on the sofa, and stayed put for the first few hours like shut-ins.

  We made plans for the next night: a romantic dinner out and a symphony performance at Tanglewood, a wonderful outdoor venue just a few miles away in Lenox, Massachusetts. This was beginning to feel like a deliriously romantic vacation.

  Suddenly, the realization that it was just us sank in.

  And it was lovely.

  Al cracked, “1998 called and they are happy to have us back!”

  And that dispelled any angst or guilt we may have been feeling for the rest of the weekend. We both let out a big, relaxing, cleansing sigh!

  As we eased into the freedom of being alone for the weekend, we both found ourselves letting go of our stress. Al’s daily alarm was draining him, and Deborah had been busier than ever at work, traveling and juggling deadlines on 20/20 and also sometimes reporting stories on Good Morning America at the crack of dawn. Deborah felt the emotional toll of the decline of her eighty-seven-year-old mom, who was slipping deeper into her Alzheimer’s disease. We were also in the throes of Nicky’s applications to middle school. Deborah simmered with resentment that, like many women, she shouldered the bulk of the kids’ issues. Al disagreed, given that he’s a deeply involved, hands-on dad. Distracted and exhausted, we’d been on edge, snapping at each other over small things and feeling disconnected as a couple. If Al forgot to run the dishwasher before going to bed, Deborah was annoyed. And when Deborah forgot to call to discuss who was taking Nicky to tae kwon do, Al was irritated. The smallest and seemingly most insignificant things suddenly felt huge and insurmountable. Each of us felt the other simply didn’t understand our frustrations. As the months dragged on, both of us secretly wondered if our marriage was in trouble. Romance wasn’t even a thought as we made it through each day. So here we were, alone, staring at each other as a summer breeze blew through the empty hallways of our home.

  We made dinner, laughed, talked and went to bed early, falling into each other’s arms. “Ahh, now we remember this person lying next to us in bed—the person each of us fell in love with.”

  The next morning, though there was no room service, we were able to have a leisurely breakfast in our kitchen, enjoying our coffee in the comfort and privacy of home.

  It was a brilliant summer day. With a little Barry White playing in the background and a dip in the pool together, anything was possible!

  When Al peeled off to Guido’s, our local grocer, for salmon, asparagus and salad greens, Deborah lit a couple of Diptyque orange-blossom candles and cut some fresh flowers from the garden to set the stage for a romantic lunch at home.

  An hour later, Al cheerfully returned from the store, bursting into the house with a fistful of sunflowers and another fistful of gladiolas. In the background, the Luther Vandross song “I’d Rather” was playing, which brought us both to tears.

  I’d rather have bad times with you than good times with someone else . . .

  We basked in the glow of a stolen moment. The flowers were a beautiful gesture . . . a reminder of how thoughtful and romantic Al has always been. In that moment we were reminded of the love we feel for each other. Family responsibilities can suck out all of our attention and energy, and by the end of the day, we’re so tired, we fall asleep before we can focus on us. But now, with the smooth and sexy sounds of Luther as our guide, we were finding each other again.

  We both grew up with parents who couldn’t afford regular family vacations, much less romantic getaways. Any vacation was usually a road trip of some sort to visit relatives. Not exactly romantic. It simply wasn’t part of the culture we grew up in.

  Deborah’s parents, busy raising nine kids in the segregated South, weren’t outwardly affectionate, but Al recalls plenty of romance between his mom and dad. As a result of seeing his parents show their affection, Al is the more classic romantic. He leaves cards and heartfelt love notes on the dresser or hidden away in Deborah’s suitcase for her to find when she arrives at her assignment. And Deborah will sometimes leave a string of candles on the darkened stairs to greet Al when he returns late at night from a trip, to let him know she missed him. But we both agree that it is Al who is the true-blue romantic in the relationship. While being unpredictable and full of surprises is not necessarily a good trait for a weatherman, it has been wonderful for our relationship. Keeping romance alive is important, but just thinking about it is important too. This might sound weird, but if you are thinking loving thoughts or just cuddling your spouse without any expectation of anything else (if you get our drift), that goes a long way.

  In our hectic lives there’s one thing about our relationship we’ve learned for sure. We’re better partners and better parents by taking time here and there for each other. It’s something we happily own with our children. We want them to understand that as much as we love them, Mom and Dad are stronger and more available when our bond is intact. Twenty years so far . . . and here’s to twenty more!

  6

  Family Is Forever

  DEBORAH

  Choices We Make as Parents

  I think any parent would agree that we all make sacrifices we never contemplated before having children. In fact, for me just getting pregnant was in and of itself a struggle and a major life adjustment, one that I don’t regret for a second.


  When Al and I got married, I was in my midthirties, so I knew that we needed to get cracking if I was ever going to hear that magical word “Mommy.” To our surprise, within a year, Al and I were ecstatic to learn that I was pregnant.

  We were reluctant to make a big announcement since my obstetrician, Janice Marks, warned us that the first twelve weeks for a woman in her thirties could be dicey. But that very first weekend, I was substitute hosting the weekend edition of ABC World News Tonight and couldn’t contain my excitement! I pulled aside my executive producer, Kathy O’Hearn, an accomplished and kind woman in the tough world of network news who was also a friend. “I’m pregnant,” I whispered gleefully. Kathy knew how much I wanted a family and gave me an excited hug.

  Days later, Al and I shared the great news with a few close friends and family and began making plans for our new bundle. Then we had a sonogram that stopped us in our tracks. Something didn’t look right. Dr. Marks, usually spirited and happy, looked ashen as she revealed an unthinkable prognosis. The fetus wasn’t growing and barely had a heartbeat. We were likely to miscarry. My throat went dry. Al and I were devastated. We prayed and hoped against hope that the doctors were wrong. But days later, I began feeling intense stomach spasms. We had lost our baby.

  Months later, barely able to discuss our gut-wrenching pain, Al and I met with Dr. Marks. The good news was that I had healed and would be fine. The tough news, she added, was that in the world of reproduction, I was no spring chicken. She strongly advised us to consider fertility assistance if we truly wanted to begin a family now. Still a bit numb, we were dumbfounded and in denial. “We don’t need medical help,” we thought. This was only one miscarriage. But after meeting with a fertility specialist who determined that I had mild endometriosis and that Al had, shall we say, reluctant sperm, we concluded that in vitro fertilization was probably our best hope of getting pregnant.

  It was not an easy proposition, to say the least. I had to have hormone treatments, including injections that Al had to give me in my butt. This was slightly comical, at first, but became annoying when he discovered that slapping my bum numbed me temporarily and gave him the courage to jam the needle in. Remember, this was a daily event! The whole process was painful, humbling and tiresome—and for an added dose of fun, the progesterone, Lupron and estrogen made me cranky, bloated and emotional.