Been There, Done That

by Al Roker Deborah Roberts

  What a cool cat L. A. Reid is—much cooler than me.

  Still, when you boil it down, you want your kids to know that about themselves as they go out into the world. All they have to do is be themselves and be the best them they can be.

  My dad gave that gift to me—and I hope I am passing that on to my kids too.

  “Just do you,” I say, smiling as I do. In the end, that’s all any of us can really strive for.

  4

  Grace Under Pressure

  AL

  A Gown, a Tux, a Tutu and a Funeral

  Back in May of 2006, Deborah called with exciting news: Our pastor, Reverend Brenda Husson, was hosting a dinner party at her home for Archbishop Desmond Tutu of South Africa, and she’d like us to attend. Naturally we accepted this invitation. After all, who wouldn’t want to attend a dinner honoring one of the world’s greatest spiritual leaders and an outspoken voice for civil rights—not just in South Africa, but around the world?

  It wasn’t until I went to put it on my calendar that I realized we already had an engagement that night, a black-tie charity event hosted by the Black Alumni of Pratt Institute at Lincoln Center.

  “No problem,” I thought. Like all busy New Yorkers, we could do both. First we’d swing by Reverend Husson’s dinner for Archbishop Tutu and then we’d hit the charity event a little later.

  Before we knew it, the date had arrived. Deborah looked radiant in a white-and-silver brocaded dress. I didn’t look half bad, in my tux and a silver tie to play off my wife’s dress. I don’t know why, but it sometimes bugs her that I do this. It’s not like I’m making us wear matching Hawaiian shirts. I would never do that to her! That’s an embarrassment I would save for the whole family . . . on vacation . . . with lots of pictures. Still, I don’t mind sharing a bit of color in common when Deborah and I get decked out for a night on the town!

  Normally, we’d just grab a cab, but given that we needed to hit two places in one night and timing was critical, we decided to spring for a car service. I must say, we made for quite the dashing couple, and if we were overdressed for the first stop, well, we would simply explain we had another event to go to. After all, this is New York, where anything goes.

  As we pulled up to the front door, I noticed a lot of other black cars in front of our pastor’s apartment building, but hey, Archbishop Tutu was there, and no doubt there were a lot of dignitaries who wanted to pay their respects inside.

  As we walked into the building, the doorman said, “Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Roker. I know why you’re here. You just missed Mayor Bloomberg. First elevator on your right.” So we walked to the elevator, duly impressed, and were whisked to the sixth floor of the building by the elevator operator.

  The elevator opened onto a very large and beautiful apartment. It was more spacious than I remembered, but we had been to the reverend’s apartment only once before, a few years earlier, so my recollections of it were a bit hazy. There was a lovely cocktail reception going on, befitting a person of Archbishop Tutu’s stature, I thought, although the man himself was, by all accounts, very humble. A waiter took our drink request and hurried off as we wandered about the apartment, nodding and murmuring “Hellos” to several people we knew.

  Some of the artwork on the wall caught my eye. If I didn’t know any better, that was a Renoir . . . Wait, was that a genuine Matisse over there? I knew the reverend’s husband, Tom, was an artist; was it possible he had painted these copies, or did they actually own such masterpieces? At just about that moment, Deborah came up to me and said, “I hope dinner is being served soon. We have to get going!”

  Then she bumped into a couple of people she knew from the retail and fashion world, which was strange only because none of them belonged to our church. All the women commented on Deb’s dress and how beautiful she looked. She demurred, something about “this old thing?” and explained we had another event to go to.

  While Deb was talking to these acquaintances, I looked around. I hadn’t yet seen our reverend, nor hide nor hair of the guest of honor. In fact, I didn’t recognize any of these people from church at all. Deb circled back to me and said, “This is odd. The last two people I talked to I’m pretty sure are Jewish. Is that strange for a dinner celebrating an Episcopal archbishop?”

  The fact is, not really. The New York Episcopal Church has a long history of interdenominational brotherhood that encompasses all religions. But before I could answer, Deborah was buttonholed by another pal. Deborah asked if she had seen Archbishop Tutu. The woman all but squealed with delight and surprise.

  “Archbishop Tutu’s here? Wow. I would love to meet him!” With that she took off like the Roadrunner with Wile E. Coyote in hot pursuit.

  You know how you sometimes get a sneaking suspicion that something’s not quite right? Like your fly might be down or the girl you’re about to kiss might be your second cousin?

  That’s what this party was beginning to feel like.

  That is until I stopped a passing waiter and asked, “Oh, are those lamb chops?” Deborah poked me. “I mean, is this the dinner for Archbishop Desmond Tutu?”

  The waiter looked a little confused, even as I helped myself to three of the most succulent lamb chops I had ever tasted.

  “Um, no,” he replied. “This is Abe Rosenthal’s shivah.”

  Then, instinctively realizing I was in the wrong place and protectively shielding the rest of his tray of lamb chops from me, he scurried away.

  Abe Rosenthal?

  The Abe Rosenthal?

  The legendary editor of the New York Times? He was an iconic figure in New York City. I knew of him, but I certainly didn’t know him.

  Oy.

  Deborah and I realized our mistake. The elevator operator had just assumed we were coming here, to the Rosenthal shivah in 6-A. We were going to 10-A.

  A difference of four floors was all the difference in the world.

  A Jewish celebration of a life or a lovely sit-down dinner with a religious legend.

  And we were way overdressed for both.

  “We are in the wrong apartment! At a shivah!” Deb whispered. “We have got to get out of here!”

  Well, at least we’d blended right in with crowd.

  Not so much.

  We were the only black couple in the room, and dressed to the nines to boot.

  Nope.

  Nobody was gonna think we were out of place.

  Except us.

  The ones asking for Desmond Tutu.

  We had to get out inconspicuously and find our way to the right apartment, where there was a dinner party going on with two empty seats!

  We casually made our way toward the door only to see that Mr. Rosenthal’s widow, Shirley, was now standing there greeting newcomers and giving those leaving a fond farewell.

  “Just act natural, say a few words and we’re home free,” I whispered to Deborah out of the side of my mouth.

  “I know what to do. I’m not an idiot!” she hissed in reply.

  To this day, my wife denies the following happened.

  Trust me.

  It did.

  There’s no reason to make it up.

  In fact, there’s no upside for me in sharing it with you. But I feel I have an obligation to tell you the rest of the story, so here it goes.

  There was another couple ahead of us, saying something soothing and comforting to the newly widowed Mrs. Rosenthal. When it was our turn, I heard my wife say, “Oh, Mrs. Rosenthal. What a great man your husband was. Congratulations!”

  Congratulations?

  Hey, your husband’s dead! Let’s strike up the band!

  I quickly jumped in, inserting myself between the two ladies, and said, “Yes, our condolences, Mrs. Rosenthal,” as I grasped her hand, my hip pushing against Deborah’s toward the door. “You know, my social studies teacher believed you couldn�
��t consider yourself a true New Yorker unless you knew how to do the New York Times ‘subway fold.’ What a legacy!”

  And with that, I hustled Deborah to the elevator.

  “CONGRATULATIONS? The woman’s husband just died. Were you wishing her well on cashing in on the insurance?”

  Deborah looked at me like I was crazy.

  “I said no such thing. I said ‘condolences.’”

  Just then the elevator door opened. “You let us off on the wrong floor,” I said to the elevator operator. “We’re going to the Husson apartment for the Desmond Tutu dinner.”

  “You didn’t say where you were headed,” he responded unapologetically. “You looked too fancy for the other thing.”

  A few seconds later, we were at the right affair, and as expected, dinner was well under way. It would have been awkward to sit down and join the dinner at this late juncture. Thankfully, our beloved reverend quickly ushered us in and, after some hasty introductions, we apologized for our tardiness and explained what had just transpired. Nobody laughed harder than Archbishop Tutu.

  Of course, he was also the guy who, rather than engage me in a discussion about world affairs, said, “You know, I’ve seen you on TV. I thought you were a much fatter fellow.” We offered our apologies for having to cut our visit short and made our way to the elevator once again.

  But the elevator refused to arrive. After standing at the door for a good ten minutes, our hostess called down to the lobby. Hanging up the phone, she delivered the news. The elevator was on the fritz.

  “You’ll have to take the service elevator.”

  She showed us through the kitchen and into the hallway that led to the service elevator. It wasn’t a total loss. Guess what was on the menu.

  Yep.

  Lamb chops.

  I snagged a few for us on a napkin so we’d have something to nibble on in the car.

  The service elevator arrived, and there was our old friend, Sol the elevator operator.

  Our first stop?

  Back down to six, to pick up some departing Rosenthal guests, who looked at us and said, “You’re still here?”

  “Long story,” I replied around a mouthful of lamb chop.

  Deborah and I exited the elevator, got in the car and collapsed into laughter.

  What the heck had just happened?

  It was something that could happen only in New York City and, in all likelihood, could happen only to us. As we drove off to what would now be our third event of the night, I thought, “There’s nobody else I could have done this with except Deborah!” Despite the opportunity for embarrassment, she never lost her sense of humor or her beautiful smile throughout the evening. She is the definition of grace under pressure. I knew this would be a story we would remember for the rest of our lives. And congratulations to us both for that!

  DEBORAH

  Our Trials Have Lessons to Teach Us

  There’s no doubt that I am a blessed woman. I have two beautiful, healthy children, a warm and kind stepdaughter, a loving and generous husband and a fulfilling career that many would kill for. But what can I say? Even though I am fortunate to have the help of a wonderful caregiver at home, there are times I feel like any other stressed-out working mom who is trying to satisfy a dozen needs at the same time while itemizing the multitasks in my head . . . usually in the middle of the night.

  Okay, I have a GMA segment at seven forty-five tomorrow—so I’ll need to leave at six thirty.

  Argh, I forgot to contact Mom’s doctor to discuss her new medication . . .

  Oh, and I didn’t call my sister Tina back . . . for the third time . . .

  Did I put out the thirteen dollars Nicky needs to buy a PE shirt?

  I have to hound Leila to go over her reading for church this Sunday.

  And, oh no, I have my annual mammogram tomorrow that I absolutely can’t miss since I had a scare last time when they found a benign cyst!

  I was especially agitated about this appointment, not just because all of us women hope for the best but fear the worst, but because immediately afterward I was scheduled to tape a video message to salute my dear friend Robin Roberts in her courageous fight against breast cancer! None of us ever wants to hear the words “You’ve got cancer,” yet Robin, bless her heart, has had to endure cancer twice!

  During weeks like this, which are most of the weeks of my life, I find myself feeling anxious, sometimes a little snippier than I’d like to admit, and usually frazzled. The world seems to be spinning too fast and I have no possible way of slowing it down. I occasionally take yoga and meditation classes to temper the fast-paced world I navigate, but clearly not often enough! Breathing and staying in the moment are fleeting and foreign ideas.

  I can hear Sissy Spacek in her movie Coal Miner’s Daughter, in which she portrays Loretta Lynn. On the verge of a breakdown, she turns to her husband and says, “I feel like I’m not running my life; my life is running me.”

  Some days I truly feel like life is running me . . . and I can’t quite catch my breath.

  Who among us hasn’t felt that way from time to time?

  Let’s face it: Grace under pressure is not an easy achievement under most circumstances. But I have learned that if you simply pay attention, you don’t have to look far to find examples of grace in your midst, people who are paragons of strength when you least expect it. One morning after a particularly stressful week of travel and appointments, I was cooking breakfast for Nicky with Good Morning America playing on the small kitchen TV, as I usually do on my mornings off. It was the day Robin decided to go public with her pre-leukemia diagnosis. She had shared this serious medical setback with me and a small group of trusted women friends weeks earlier, but I still found myself frozen in front of the television screen as I watched her stoically open up her personal world yet again to viewers who, like me, were in their kitchens sipping coffee before work. Through tears, Robin bravely and optimistically spoke about her plans for a stem cell transplant, thanks to her sister Sally-Ann, who was a perfect match.

  In the midst of this frightening and devastating news, Robin was the one comforting others, including her colleagues and her viewers. She was an absolute pillar of strength, the epitome of grace under pressure. She was hopeful, grateful and strong. And even though I’d already known, I unexpectedly burst into tears. I have admired Robin for many reasons over the years and have treasured our friendship. But in this brave moment she was now my hero. I was overcome with respect for her courage in the face of such a mind-shattering diagnosis and felt deeply humbled that my “stressful life” paled by comparison. Suddenly everything was put in perspective.

  The entire ABC family was shaken to its core by yet another blow inflicted on our steel magnolia. Like many, I was angry and hurt for her. It wasn’t fair. Hadn’t she suffered enough?

  I never told anyone, but for many weeks after that I sobbed at night in the privacy of my home as I worried for Robin. She was not only a dear friend to me, but I had always been touched by the bond she shared with Leila over the years. Maybe it was the last name that we shared or Robin’s heartwarming smile, but Leila adored her from the moment they met. Robin was the first woman she had ever known to battle breast cancer, and somehow my little girl was captivated by this woman who was a tower of strength, a living superhero. Of course we watched GMA in the mornings (shh . . . don’t mention this to Al!), and Leila loved Robin’s easy laugh, her folksy manner and her devotion to sports. Somehow she delivered the news in a way that a fourth grader could appreciate. So Leila often quoted Robin when talking about a news event and used her as an example in school during a discussion about strong, influential women.

  So when I visited Robin during the 2008 Christmas holidays, while she was recovering from her breast cancer treatments, Leila wanted to come too. She brought chocolate chip cookies she had spent hours proudly preparing. We picked up Chi
nese food and had a fun and happy lunch. We were thrilled to watch Robin, bald, frail and thin from the chemo treatments, dig in and enjoy the food.

  When we finished, Robin pulled Leila over and gave her a Christmas gift. My daughter’s face lit up when she opened it to find a diary, which Robin explained was for journaling about her deepest thoughts, and a gift card to “buy whatever Santa didn’t bring.” Leila was blown away by the unexpected moment and kind generosity of the woman she had come to cheer up! When we got home, Leila began to weep, overcome that Robin had remembered her in such a personal way. I held her close as tears fell from my eyes too.

  Now her icon was sick again.

  I couldn’t bear the thought of my daughter having to watch Robin suffer even more. We all thought Robin had won that battle, but now she was facing a second and much harder fight for her life—one no one saw coming.

  As the months dragged on and Robin prepared for her stem cell surgery, she made time for our gal-pal lunch gatherings, which Tonya, Gayle, Theresa and I cherished more than any other we’d ever had. Though we couldn’t meet as often, when we did, we still laughed and gasped and whispered private truths. Robin was bound and determined to live and love her life.

  What she may not have realized at the time was that she was also teaching the rest of us how to live. In the midst of my stressed-out, “topsy-turvy” life, I was finding incredible strength, clarity and courage through the example of my desperately ill friend.

  In August of 2013, just before she was scheduled to have her lifesaving bone marrow surgery, Robin’s mom, Lucimarian, passed away—another cruel blow to this already physically fragile woman who was enduring more than her share of pain. Robin and I had shared many stories and stresses about our aging mothers over the years, and I had been blessed to spend time with Lucimarian. So I felt her passing deeply and hard.

  I was touched to be invited to her funeral in Pass Christian, Mississippi. Nothing could have prepared me for this experience. First of all, practically the entire town attended the wake! As I pulled up to the funeral home, I couldn’t believe my eyes: The line to greet the family wrapped all around the building. I took my place with the locals, who all seemed to have a story about Lucimarian’s kindness and spunk. Hundreds and hundreds of people came to pay their respects to the once lively woman whose spiritual imprint was indelibly marked on this small coastal town. The outpouring of love was mind-boggling. It filled my heart knowing what this must have meant to Robin.