Don’t Confuse the Wedding with the Marriage
DEBORAH
Don’t Confuse the Wedding with the Marriage
I attended a cocktail party for a friend who was joyfully days away from her wedding. I was so happy to be celebrating this blessing with her, as she had been looking for Mr. Right for a long time. A strikingly beautiful woman with smooth dark hair and a quick, bright smile, she had finally discovered that the man of her dreams was actually a childhood acquaintance she had reconnected with. Her fiancé was handsome, charming and successful. I was thrilled my friend had found what she’d been looking for and was delighted to be part of such an intimate evening with friends.
As I was getting ready to leave the party, she and I were chatting about love, life and marriage, and I said, “Do you mind if I offer you some unsolicited advice?”
I know, shocking, right?
It’s always risky to offer a friend unsolicited advice. While you know your heart is in the right place, sometimes people aren’t open or ready to hear your thoughts even if you think they could be helpful. I never want anyone to feel judged or attacked, but I am the kind of friend who feels comfortable sharing life lessons I’ve learned along the way, especially with those I care most about.
Happily, she accepted my offer and listened closely as I began to talk.
“Honey, don’t confuse the wedding with the marriage.” I paused because I wanted her to really hear what I was about to share. “I know it sounds kind of strange, but it seems that so many hopeless romantics make that mistake. Take my word on this. They’re not the same.
“The wedding is going to be a whirlwind of bliss, beauty and magic . . . everything fairy tales and dreams are made of. Marriage isn’t always that way.”
Okay, I didn’t want to overdo it and scare the poor girl to death just before her long-awaited walk down the aisle. After all, I am a big believer in marriage! “Soon Al and I are going to celebrate twenty amazing years together. It has been fabulous, and I would do it all over again. But it is serious business. It’s easy to go into it believing every day is going to feel like your wedding day—floating on air, embracing each other without a care in the world, not seeing anyone else in the room. And for a while it’s like that. But sooner rather than later reality sets in. Life takes over, and there will be decisions to make. Hard decisions. You will face challenges that will test your strength, your commitment, your patience and perhaps even your love. The fact is, marriage is hard, and you have to make the choice to be there with that person and believe he is worth it and worthy of struggling through whatever crisis you face.” I spoke softly, and I reached over and touched her arm so she would know I was coming from a place of love. I reiterated how wonderful it is, just in case she was about to freak out.
Then I mentioned a memorable piece of advice from a dear friend who got married just before Al and I did. It sounded corny and poetic at the same time. She said, “Marriage is like a long dance. Sometimes you are slow dancing in each other’s arms and it is lovely and lustful, and sometimes you are pushing away and fast dancing. Sometimes you are doing a romantic tango, and sometimes you are strutting around doing your own thing in a different part of the room. The key thing to remember is that no matter what, you are always in the dance together.”
I’ve never forgotten those very important words of wisdom.
My friend gave me a big, long hug and a smile signaling that she appreciated the advice.
I am far from an expert, but to me, marriage is about all of the challenges and tests you have endured and, yes, the tough times you pull through together. It is also about the decision you make over and over that it is worth continuing to do that. When I look at my husband, I think to myself, “Wow!” We’ve weathered fertility issues, health scares, Al’s weight issues, our career ups and downs, competitiveness, disappointments, highs, lows, family illnesses, deaths and many other stresses and strains together.
T-O-G-E-T-H-E-R.
And that’s the most important thing.
Sometimes when Al is upset with me or he’s done something that has left me disappointed, after the dust has settled I think to myself, “This is what the marriage part is all about.” We’re not living a wedding. We are in a marriage. That means effort, love, patience, forgiveness, compassion and more love.
At our wedding rehearsal dinner, Al’s mom, Isabel, gave me some unsolicited advice that I still remember clearly and have held dear. Al’s mom was a power to be reckoned with, even at four foot three and about 110 pounds. She had a wicked sense of humor, and her cackling laugh was audible two floors away. But on that particular day, she looked us both dead in the eyes and in a serious tone said, “Communication is the secret to a long marriage. Talk . . . talk . . . talk . . . about everything. Marriage isn’t easy, but if you talk you will avoid a lot of problems.”
I have to admit, we both brushed it off in the thrill of the festive night. I remember thinking, “Al’s mom is nothing if not dramatic!” But as the years rolled by, I came to realize that her simple words offered powerful advice based on experience and wisdom. John Gray was absolutely right in his famous book Men Are from Mars and Women Are from Venus. Men and women speak entirely different languages! When Al and I have had a frustrating misunderstanding, it’s usually because one of us didn’t fully explain our intentions or feelings. I feel annoyed when he throws out that wonderful half of a salad that I was planning to take for lunch the next day, but of course I didn’t tell him not to. I just assumed he could read my mind. Or when he’s steaming that I’m in an edit room working late even though he made a nice dinner for me and the kids, it’s usually because he didn’t tell me he was making dinner at a certain time and I neglected to let him know I wouldn’t be home. Or there was the time when my sisters came to town and Al was quiet and a bit grumpy at dinner, far from the happy weatherman we’d seen on TV twelve hours earlier. I felt angry and embarrassed. But if Al had simply told me that he’d had two late-afternoon meetings after the show and was running out of steam, I would’ve understood. I wanted to show my sisters a good time and counted on Al to join me in it. Only after we discussed my expectations and his exhaustion did we understand each other. As Isabel said, talking to each other would help us avoid a lot of our troubles.
And though we have a healthy, strong marriage, we will both admit that as we close in on two decades of marriage, we are stronger and happier, thanks to couples therapy. Some might ask why I am choosing to share such personal details about our lives, but Al and I are proud that we have both been open to seeking help. A lot of people, especially people of color, don’t want to admit to needing outside help in their relationships. Traditionally, especially in our parents’ generation, the community has relied solely on the church or prayer to solve difficulties; anything more would be seen as airing their dirty laundry, a sign of failure or someone meddling in their lives.
We aren’t saying it’s the answer for everyone, but for Al and me, it has been our secret sauce to navigating situations we weren’t capable of handling on our own.
The first time I saw a therapist was actually before Al and I were married. I did a story on the lifelong pain of sibling rivalry, for which I interviewed someone who, like me, came from a family of nine kids. And as in my family, the relationships were complicated now that they were adults. The child who was labeled “the baby” continued to behave that way, and the sibling who was “irresponsible” demanded a lot of energy and left her siblings feeling angry and disappointed. In talking with this woman, I saw myself. I too had strained relationships with some of my brothers and sisters. Some of us had grown apart over the years, and some weren’t doing their share in helping with our parents, who were beginning to show signs of age. The woman I interviewed was having trouble expressing herself and feeling manipulated, and I was struck by how many issues were triggered for me. I soon made an appointment with a highly regarded therapist and felt so much better. I became a stronger woman. I was less hesitant to express my wants and needs and more capable of setting boundaries, which I was always fearful of doing. I began saying no when I felt one of my sisters was asking me to do something I didn’t want to do. And I was feeling less guilty doing so.
Therapy was useful when Al and I began to get serious in our relationship and later, when we married. Since Al came to the relationship with an ex-wife and a daughter, we were destined for complications. I thought our happiness and love would cure any problems we faced, but that was wishful thinking, and of course, it wasn’t the case. Al felt a tremendous amount of guilt about his daughter Courtney. I completely accepted that she was a part of his life and I struggled to include her in everything, but like any child of divorce, she was hurting and blamed me for her broken family. Of course, I wasn’t the reason her parents divorced, but that didn’t matter to Courtney.
Once when I traveled to Texas on assignment, I brought her back a cute blouse and a little doll. I expected a happy “thank you” and a hug. But eight-year-old Courtney took the gift bag from me with a blank look. Al, embarrassed, chided her for not saying thank you. Meekly, she thanked me, but I was upset by her reaction—or lack of one. Moments like this began to tug at our relationship. There were times when I wanted Al’s full attention and devotion and he was terribly conflicted—especially when it was time for Courtney to head back to her mom after a weekend with us. Al’s happiness clearly dipped at those moments. It was as if he were being pulled on by two women in his life. We began to have small arguments while trying to figure out how to help Courtney fit in and feel comfortable. It was the classic struggle that so many blended families feel and deal with. We needed help, and fortunately, Al was open to the idea of therapy to talk out our problems.
Through friends, we were referred to a very experienced therapist who happened to be an African-American man named Henry. Originally from the South, he had a deep appreciation for subtle things that might be influenced by my black Southern heritage. He was a tall, lanky man with a booming voice, and when Henry spoke, which wasn’t often, you can bet we listened. In fact, he said so little, we sometimes wondered if he was asleep during our sessions. Maybe he was, and honestly, who could have blamed him after listening to some of our mundane problems?
When he offered his opinion, it was filled with facts. It was neither hearsay nor hypothetical, which I always appreciated. He advised us to talk more and to discuss the hurt we each felt. But we also had to be willing to consider the other person’s feelings. I had to put myself in Al’s shoes and appreciate his pain. And he had to be sensitive to moments when I needed him and to learn to let go of the guilt.
By now you know I’m a say-it-like-it-is kind of gal and therefore I have a tremendous appreciation for anyone else who operates that way. So Henry really won me over. Al trusted him too. But it was one remark that truly sealed the deal for him. After talking about my guilt over this and that and my desire to please everyone, which leaves me feeling exhausted, Henry dryly said, “You know, Deborah, there’s not enough room up there on the cross for you and Jesus.” I don’t know if it was his intent, but Al howled. (I smiled . . . a bit.)
Sometimes we saw Henry together, and other times we each went alone. With his guidance, we were able to come to our own understanding and acceptance of certain things.
While uncovering problems and pain is never a walk in the park, Al and I appreciated Henry and truly admired his insights. The more we saw him, the more we realized it was good for us to have a neutral third party to talk to, especially someone both of us respected and whose opinion we came to greatly trust. I think a lot of spouses go through a period where problems or feelings seem to be falling on deaf ears. But if it comes from a third party, suddenly, that same idea is crystal clear.
Seeing the therapist was an outlet, a place where we felt safe and secure enough to pour out our problems and give them to a person who was equipped to offer sound advice. He also helped us see ourselves and each other’s point of view without judgment.
Al and I made a commitment to each other a long time ago that no matter what, we would be devoted to our marriage and family. As my mom famously told Al, “Once someone comes into this family, they don’t step out!”
Two-thirds of all divorcing couples today never sought therapy before calling it quits, which means these couples would rather divorce than face the prospect of therapy. Al and I aren’t willing to so easily throw away everything we have built together. The thought of going to therapy can be scary, daunting, overwhelming and disappointing—but it beats giving up. At least it does for us.
Like I told my friend, marriage—and even love—takes work. And it certainly takes commitment—a lot of commitment. Al and I are totally committed to each other and to our family. Anytime there are problems, we want to make things better before the only thing we share are our children and maybe the furniture. That would stink!
Even if you are reluctant to consider therapy, I strongly encourage you to take the time to check in with your partner every now and then, and if you have children, make it a point to spend some time together alone. It’s important to talk about your relationship.
I can’t deny that I hit the jackpot when it comes to life partners. Many people know that my guy is fun-loving and kind. But not everyone knows how romantic and thoughtful he is. Some years ago, he got me a rare edition of Shakespeare’s sonnets for my birthday, and once when I mentioned offhandedly that I liked a certain necklace, I found it on my pillow a few weeks later—just because. Al is a man who truly listens, which is why I fell in love with him.
But if your relationship is anything like ours, it’s an ever-changing work in progress that will require some fine-tuning along the way, and that’s a good thing. Great romances don’t happen overnight. They’re built over a lifetime of love, adoration and the promise of “happily ever after!”
AL
Men Always Want to Have Sex
My dad taught me many things over the years, especially when it came to relationships and marriage. He said, “Son, marriage is a constant compromise. If you aren’t working at it, you won’t succeed.”
I know my parents didn’t have a perfect marriage and there were times when they fought, but they were very affectionate and demonstrative and I always knew they loved each other. They were open about their feelings. It was an extension of who they were as a couple—and it impacted me and how I view myself as a husband.
That being said . . .
I am going to talk about something that no couple really wants to discuss—together.
Because guys know you ladies talk about this with your girlfriends.
Yeah, I said it.
We know.
My wife thinks I always want to have sex.
Is she wrong?
No!
Am I unique?
I don’t think so!
Every one of her friends’ husbands or boyfriends wants the same thing.
I am no different from any of those guys.
And she knows it because she talks about it with her girlfriends all the time at lunches, where they devise very clever ways to get out of having sex with their men. I can picture these lunches in my mind, with Deborah and her perfectly coiffed pals sitting at a restaurant in Midtown Manhattan, sipping wine and laughing about how one of them made up some excuse the night before so they didn’t have to make love to their husband.
Spoiler alert:
WE KNOW!
We know when you get into bed really fast and pull the covers up over your head and pretend to be asleep.
We know you secretly pray for one of the kids to come into the room, and when they do, encourage them to stay.
We know when you put on the same old, unsexy pajamas and loudly proclaim how tired you are that what you’re really saying is, “Not tonight, dear!”
When exactly did “I’m so tired” replace “I’ve got a headache” anyway?
There aren’t any excuses we haven’t heard or Academy Award–worthy performances we haven’t endured when you are trying to avoid the act.
WE ALL KNOW!
It’s no great secret.
We also know that you love us, love our children, the family and life we share.
We know you want to keep the relationship going, the fire burning and your man happy.
We know we want more and you want less.
We know there are two days a year most guys can count on for sex—their birthdays and Valentine’s Day. Maybe Christmas, but that too comes but once a year.
After that, we just hope.
I consider great sex any sex I have that doesn’t require me to beg for it. I hate feeling like I’m holding a cash can in bed with a sign that reads, “Help me. I’m starving—for sex.” There’s nothing more pathetic, is there?
Thankfully, my beautiful wife knows this about me, and from time to time she will surprise the heck out of me with unsolicited and unexpected moments of bliss. And after more than twenty years together, we’ve learned that “moves” that once worked can sometimes fade over the years—or worse, turn into an irritation—so we try to shake things up, keep it interesting and make sure we aren’t annoying each other (okay, mostly me annoying Deborah with my hints that I’m in the mood). As long as I’m smooth, romantic and not too crass, I’m usually “in like Flynn!”
While I hope my efforts will pay off with a passionate evening, afternoon, morning (I am not choosy) of lovemaking, believe it or not, every time I light a candle I am not necessarily trying to set the mood.
I like candles!
I also make my own bath salts out of Himalayan sea salt, eucalyptus, peppermint and lavender. That doesn’t mean I’m trying to get my wife into the tub—though it wouldn’t be discouraged.
To be fair, there are plenty of times I am trying to set the mood when I light candles around the house, but there are also times I am just looking to create ambience. Is there any prettier light than candlelight?
Especially in the bedroom?
And yet, just when I think Deborah is all on board, the mood feels right with soft music playing in the background and a couple of candles burning on the nightstands, she will lean over and blow them out.
“I know what you’re up to!” she says.
Another attempt thwarted.
“Oh well,” I think. “Tomorrow is another day.”
But honestly, I am by nature a romantic guy. It really isn’t difficult. Especially for guys, if you can show a modicum of effort, you’ll be deemed romantic. It’s a sad fact, but the bar is set a lot lower for guys than it is for women. Women are impressed when we think about anything besides nachos and beer. So there are times I make a move with no ulterior motive. Sometimes I might massage Deborah’s shoulders because I know she has had a long day.
“That’s okay,” she says, trying to stop me, thinking I want more.
“No, sweetie. I’m not going to try to have sex with you. I just want to give you a massage,” I say with the utmost sincerity.
To me, that is romance.
As a guy, of course I am thinking, “Maybe she will be so taken that she’ll want to have sex . . .” but I am willing to accept the fact that she probably won’t.
And there’s the ugly truth that we guys have to face: As we get older, the spirit is willing but while the flesh may not be weak, it is tired . . . and stressed . . . and basically falling apart.
Let’s face it—when it comes to just about anything, things you could do at thirty, or forty, or even fifty may become a little more difficult as you approach sixty. If you’re like me and you work a long day, by the time evening rolls around, odds are just about even that if your significant other doesn’t show interest relatively quickly, you are off to dreamland, counting those cartoon sheep you see in the mattress commercials.
That’s why the romancing is so important. Sure, there are medicinal cures that your doctor can prescribe, but given the side effects, I’m not so sure the sex is worth it. Except for the warning about a four-hour erection.
I love the admonition. “If you experience an erection of four hours or longer, tell your doctor.” Hell, if I have a boner for four hours, I’m telling everyone.
And while we’re talking about the medications, what’s with the commercial that always ends with the couple in the side-by-side tubs, watching the sunset? You’re in separate bathtubs. How are you having sex if you’re in separate tubs? And, by the way, how sexy do you think you are going to look after spending forty minutes sitting in side-by-side tubs? Either of you stand up, you are going to be seriously wrinkled. Well, if you’ve taken that magic pill, you’ll have at least one part that’s not shriveled!
All kidding aside, relationships do ebb and flow, especially as we get older. I’ll admit there are plenty of nights when I am too tired to comply even if Deborah were to offer herself up on a platter; the moment I hit the pillow, I am down for the count.
So, sometimes, I’m not actually after the physical act so much as the reconnection, the reassurance that we, as a couple, are “all good.” In a way, sex is an extension of connection—especially at a certain age or stage in life.
I remember many times when my mom was out of town for a few days and my dad was adrift. He’d come over to hang around, and as soon as Mom came back, he was gone. He needed to have some kind of connection to her while she was away, and I suppose as one of her kids, I represented that to him in her absence.
The act of intimacy is an anchor in a solid relationship. If it gets overlooked you become a rudderless ship.
And as a couple, if we aren’t in a good place, we aren’t going to be good for the kids. From my point of view, intimate time together is just as important as any school meeting or Little League game.
Doing anything you don’t normally get to do together, even holding hands, shopping, walking around downtown, having a night out, can be as good as foreplay. Hopefully it will lead to something more, but it doesn’t always have to for it to have a positive impact. I call my wife because I like to hear her voice during the day. For me that’s a connection. When I put my hand on her leg and she grabs it and holds it, that’s a connection. When I surprise her with flowers for no reason and she isn’t expecting it—and I am not doing it for any reason other than to see her beautiful smile—that is a connection. It’s so easy to get wrapped up in our harried lives and forget why we married or fell in love. It doesn’t take a lot to remind ourselves that we are crazy about each other, just a few moments of stopping the noise from the outside world to reaffirm and reconnect.
And if you happen to get lucky in the process?
Then it was a great day!
Or night.
Or both.
DEBORAH
Weathering the Storm
Although Al and I both work in the fiercely competitive world of network television, for many years there was very little tension or competition between us, especially in the early years of our relationship when we were both at NBC. Work-related conflicts were almost nonexistent because Al and I traveled in clearly marked lanes. Back then he primarily did the weather and I did more hard news reporting, traveling to far corners of the country and the world. He was focused on the battle among morning TV programs, and I fought the good fight on the evening news and in prime-time news magazines, although occasionally I did fill in and did some sporadic anchor work on the weekend edition of Today. Al was my biggest cheerleader and I was his. All was peaceful at home, albeit chaotic at times. The only frustration between us was due to my travel, which often disrupted planned dinners and events.
The spring before our wedding in September of 1995, Barbara Walters called me, and I nearly fainted to hear the famous voice of my idol on the phone. She wanted to meet with me to discuss a position on the prestigious news magazine show 20/20. I was flattered beyond measure! My lifelong dream was to be a reporter on the number-one-rated network!
I excitedly accepted the job at ABC. The idea of any type of rivalry with my husband never entered my mind since Al was happily working in morning television and I was assigned to Friday nights doing investigative reports. These were our dream jobs, putting us both at the top of our fields. It was unimaginable that a kid from Queens and a little girl from Georgia were riding that high!
Our jobs didn’t define us as a couple, but if anything, I thought they made us stronger because we understood each other’s worlds. He had his orbit and I had mine.
Within a few years, though, I started to expand my horizons, doing occasional stories on Good Morning America. It was the first time I did any type of work that directly competed with Al and the Today show. Around this same time, Al also began expanding his role at work, doing more mainstream interviews and feature stories that went beyond the weather.
For the first time, professionally speaking, we began stepping on each other’s toes a bit. We never saw it coming, and neither of us knew how to handle this new wrinkle in our relationship. We had always unconditionally supported each other in our careers. It wasn’t that we suddenly stopped, but now there was an unspoken tension—at least there was for me.
Things would get even more complicated during a shake-up at Good Morning America. Longtime anchors Joan Lunden and Charlie Gibson were out and the new team of Lisa McRee and Kevin Newman were in. The ratings were tanking, and the publicity around the show was vicious. During the rocky transition, I became the regular fill-in at the news desk—one of the few black women holding such a position. It was exciting and terrifying.
My profile at the network was growing, and viewers were embracing me. My job was beyond blissful, even with the long, grueling hours. And even more amazingly, I was being considered for the permanent gig. I was flying high. But there was occasional turbulence; with Today and GMA going head-to-head, I started to rankle a little if Al talked about the prowess of the Today show or how well they were doing. But mostly we shook off any personal rivalry; sometimes we even thought it was quite funny.
There has always been a certain cutthroat competition among the morning shows, and these were very trying times at both GMA and Today. Most people don’t realize that the morning shows are the financial engines of their network news divisions. More than the evening news, more than the established prime-time news magazines, it’s the daily battle for ratings between GMA and the Today show that defines the TV news industry rivalry.
Why?
The morning shows make the real money that allows network news to exist, paying for the multimillion-dollar salaries of the top news anchors and the high cost of worldwide news coverage. That’s why every big interview or exclusive story is run to the ground by armies of bookers, producers and reporters. It’s not unusual that anchors themselves are pressed into service to secure the big celeb “gets.”
In the winter of 2010, Al and I would feel this network rivalry personally and face an excruciating career challenge that put our love and marriage to the toughest test ever.
When pop star Whitney Houston died a day before the Grammy Awards, there wasn’t a bigger story in the news. Every broadcast outlet was scrambling to cover the story and telling their anchors, reporters, producers, bookers—anyone who had access to the family—to bring in an exclusive interview.
During a brainstorming session with my producers at 20/20, I mentioned that I knew a particular music legend who was very close to Whitney and her family. Al had interviewed her once or twice, and we had been invited to intimate concerts and dinner with her. I felt we had a nice rapport. I had her phone number and felt comfortable reaching out to her even during this tragic moment. My executive producer, David Sloan, was thrilled by the prospect of landing such a huge get. Since 20/20 airs on Friday night, we had three days to land a powerful interview. Al wasn’t covering Whitney’s death for NBC, so I never imagined there could potentially be any conflict regarding my suggestion. In fact, he helped. I tried for thirty minutes to get the singer on her personal line, but I got no answer, not even voice mail, and I didn’t have an e-mail address. The pressure was mounting. So I called Al, and he said I was using an outdated phone number. He happily gave me the famous singer’s new phone number and her e-mail address. Al was thrilled at the thought of me scoring a huge scoop and wished me luck. I sent off a heartfelt e-mail and text message right away, expressing my condolences and explaining how awkward I felt about intruding during such a personal tragedy. I expressed my desire to do an interview with her and hoped she would trust me with her stories and memories. Much to my surprise, my phone quickly lit up with a reply from the singer. She graciously thanked me and said she was coming to New York later that week and would be happy to sit down and talk to me. She said it would be a wonderful way to honor Whitney and the relationship she felt she had with Al and me.
I was ecstatic! Getting an exclusive with this elusive megastar on everyone’s list was a major coup. I conveyed the good news to David Sloan, who was beyond thrilled too and informed the executives throughout the network that I had snared the scoop of the week. Good Morning America, World News Tonight and Nightline were all happily anticipating a slice of this coveted interview.
I touched base with the singer one more time before she arrived in New York, and she assured me she was committed to doing the interview with me.
When she got to New York on Tuesday night, I called her as planned. Much to my surprise, she didn’t call me back. This is never a good sign in journalism, especially the day before a big interview is set to air.
I was sitting on pins and needles, waiting for the phone to ring.
Nothing.
Unbeknownst to me, she had been approached by someone . . . from the Today show. And, astonishingly, she agreed to also do an interview for them, but only with Al.
I had no clue that this was happening and neither did Al! He didn’t know that his producer had pursued the singer, much less that he was expected to interview her.
It only got worse. At three p.m., forty-eight hours before 20/20 was planning to air my big get, one of our show bookers called to say the singer had changed her mind and was only interviewing with Al.
I was devastated.
How could this happen?
I had her word!
The network was counting on my promise to deliver this get.
I frantically called Al, who was befuddled. He had no idea how this had happened. He was as rattled to hear this news as I was heartbroken.
I had a lot riding on that interview, and Al knew it.
I felt humiliated, angry and betrayed. My reputation, my credibility and everything I had promised to deliver was on the line. I wasn’t going to give up without a fight.
I immediately made a distress call to the singer and left a distraught message. I phoned her manager and did my best to plead my case. I sent a beautiful bouquet of flowers to her hotel with a note begging her not to cancel. I called her manager again, who felt horrible but was at the mercy of her capricious client. I did everything except go to her hotel and camp out.
And still I got no response—until finally someone from her camp called to say she was so distraught and stressed by Whitney’s death that she needed to rest. It was a passive way of telling me to back off. I had no choice but to accept that as her final answer and let it go. I was sick with disappointment. I finally had to call David Sloan, who was deeply upset.
How would we fill our program without an interview from someone in Whitney’s life?
I was devastated because I felt I had let my show and my network down.
Al felt terrible about the situation too. He didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t his fault that the singer had bailed on me or that she wanted him to interview her. He must have called my office ten times that day, but I couldn’t answer.
Finally I picked up and I told him, “You have to tell them no, Al.”
I realize I was being selfish, but I reasoned that Al was at a big enough place in his career to decline without a penalty. I, on the other hand, needed a boost. It never occurred to me that I was not being fair to my husband, who was also under pressure in the ever-present and ongoing morning-show war we were now inadvertently fighting.
I spent the rest of the afternoon crying in my office.
Was my reputation damaged . . . my career over? What could I do to salvage this?
When Al came home that night, I was completely exhausted and overwhelmed. While we prepared dinner, I struggled to keep my cool in front of the kids, but they could tell I was very upset. My eyes looked puffy, and they could hear Al and me talking about the situation. We weren’t fighting, but they heard us discussing it with some gusto.
Finally, Nicky came into the kitchen and blurted out, “Daddy, don’t take Mommy’s story away. She needs it for her job!” Of course, he couldn’t possibly understand what he was saying, but he went on, “Don’t hurt Mommy. She’s sad.” I could immediately see the pain in my husband’s eyes.
That wasn’t what I wanted.
I knew in my heart that Al was hurting too, but to hear it from his son must have been a blow.
I did my best to reassure Leila and Nicky that wasn’t the case. That this was just work and it wasn’t a big deal.
But when they left the room and we had a quiet moment together, despite the anguish I knew we both were feeling, I pleaded with Al to change his mind.
“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 struggles 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!