It was a lot like my childhood. My mom tried to convince me not to cry when she took me back to my foster home. I would promise her I wouldn’t and work hard to keep the tears back. I never wanted to hurt my mom, all I wanted was to be with her. Then the good-bye kiss would come, and she would brush her hands through my hair as if to fix it one last time and then quickly walk away, never looking back. And the tears would start rolling down my cheeks. Silent, angry, frustrated tears. The sadness had taken over, and regardless of how much I wanted to please my mom, the sadness always won. And so I cried because my life was so out of control and there was nothing I could do to change it.
And so The Today Show was gone. It had taken so long to make it, and then it was over and for the first time in my life I gave up too easily. Could I have made a difference if I fought to hold on? I didn’t know. All I knew was that arthritis had taken it away, or so it seemed to me at the time. Arthritis was winning. I knew I had to get my fight back. But I couldn’t, not today. Would I be my healthy, aggressive self tomorrow, next month, next year? Would I ever be me again? And just as with any ended relationship, my heart was broken, only this time my body felt broken, too.
13
Oprah, My Best Friend for a Day
MAY 1996
The next two years were filled with more of the same. The ups and downs of rheumatoid arthritis and the ups and downs of television. Nothing too extreme, just living from day to day and doing the best I could. And then, out of the blue, a call comes that takes away all the pain of arthritis and the disappointments of television. In this case it was a call from Oprah.
I was in the dressing room at the WABC-TV studios in New York having just finished shooting Live. My assistant Amy pushed through the crowded room, trying to maneuver me out the door.
“You’ve got to get out of here. You’ll miss your plane,” Amy pleaded. She always watched my back, trying to protect me from the craziness at the studios where we taped Live with Regis and Kathie Lee. In our four-by-five dressing room there was my producer, today’s completed makeover with her husband, the make-over for tomorrow’s show and her daughter, my two assistants, a hairdresser, and makeup artist. There was no space and no air in the room. You would think from the frenetic atmosphere in the dressing room that I was dealing with world issues, but in reality it was only a week of Mother’s Day makeovers for the show. I had just finished my second makeover for the week. Now I needed to get to Chicago as fast as possible.
“Please, everyone, Christine has to leave NOW. Everything’s under control. We’ll be in constant contact with her during the day,” Amy shouted over the turmoil, as she moved over to the closet to grab my coat. Pulling at my arm, Amy ushered me out through the studio’s revolving front doors onto Columbus Avenue.
The town car waited to whisk me to JFK for my flight to Chicago to tape Oprah. “Good morning Ms. Kunzelman. I’m Danny, your driver. We’re off to JFK, American Airlines, domestic, right?”
“Right,” I replied, relaxing my aching body into the rich leather seats, sipping the cup of coffee Amy handed me.
I had now been living with rheumatoid arthritis for six years. Six years of introducing new drugs, mixing combinations of old drugs, and running into dead ends on all fronts. My pain was chronic. I was tired. I was depressed. I struggled daily to hold on to my career and keep my marriage as normal as possible. My survival training in foster homes turned out to be the foundation for the strength I needed during this time. My ability to live in a fantasy world came in handy. My real life was a fantasy. On paper it looked perfect. Rheumatoid arthritis had robbed me of many things, but I refused to let it ruin my life and so I forged ahead, in my stylish signature sneakers. Denial worked for me. If I looked good and acted normal, I could almost convince myself I was. With the help of pain pills, a doctor who understood my need for normalcy, and an exciting career and marriage, some days I almost was normal. On the others, the really bad days, I kept my pain to myself. I concentrated on what was good in my life, and that list was long. In the negative column it was only one issue, my health. I refused to let them merge.
Today was going to be one of my good days. There were no more great days, but I was going to be on Oprah so it had to be at least a good day. I sat back and savored the anticipation in the stillness and silence as we drove to the airport. I had been working since five o’clockA.M. The stress of the day had already demanded two pain pills just to cope with my inflamed joints, and at ten thirty my day was only beginning.
The first call had come weeks before as I stood in line at the pharmacy filling my prescriptions for my upcoming trip to NewYork.
“Christine, it’s Megan Simpson, producer at Oprah. We have a segment next Tuesday on appropriate dressing for women. There will be three experts and we’d like you to be one.” The minute I heard the word “Oprah” my heart raced. In television there was no better call. Then I thought of my bags packed at home ready for New York and ten days of television work.
My mind went into overdrive. How could I make this work? I would be in the middle of the Mother’s Day makeover week on Live with Regis and Kathie Lee, where there was no free time. But nobody said no to Oprah. I had to make it work. I would get everything in place, and Amy could take over. Amy would need an assistant. I’d consult by phone. Amy knew the procedure. It wasn’t like I was leaving her on her own. I would see the makeover in the morning, do the consultation, and figure out the direction we needed to go. It all depended on convincing the people at Live and Oprah that I could handle both. My excitement eliminated any doubt in my mind; I could do this.
“We’ll bring you in on Monday, the segment is Tuesday, and you can fly back to LA that night. We’ll book you at the Omni Berkshire, same as last time,” the producer informed me, totally unaware of my scheduling dilemma.
I swallowed hard before I answered, every inch of my body filled with excitement. When people in line overheard the word “Oprah,” every one of them was glued. This drugstore was after all Hollywood adjacent.
“Great topic for a segment, and I would love to do it. I’ll actually be working close by on Regis and Kathie Lee.”
Silence. Was she still on the line?
“So does that mean you’ll be available only when their show is over?” she asked. I could hear the change in her tone. She was probably on overload and didn’t need any more complications.
“Yes, the show goes off the air at ten o’clock A.M, and I can be free for the rest of the day.” I was glad the producers of Live couldn?t hear this conversation. They depended on me to manage the makeovers during the day and deliver a completed, perfect specimen the next morning. They didn’t need complications either.
“We start taping at noon, but we’re taping two shows that day, so let me check and see if we can do this show second and make the times work. I’ll get back to you.” And she was gone.
I immediately began second-guessing myself. Did I respond correctly? Did I let her know how much I wanted to do the show? Will Live go crazy when they find out I might be gone the entire day when I was committed to them for the week? Will she even call back? As my mind raced, questioning my every word, the phone rang.
“Christine, Meg here. I talked to my supervising producer, and she said we’re cutting it close, but we can make it work. We’ll go over the segment later.” Again she was gone. She didn’t ask if that was okay. She worked for Oprah. She didn’t need to. And now came the hard part.
“Michael, yes, it’s Christine. Look I’ve got an opportunity to tape Oprah next Tuesday. They’re working it out so it won’t interfere with our makeovers . . .”
“Won’t interfere? I don’t see how it wouldn’t interfere,” Michael questioned me and I could tell by his bored “why are you bothering me with this?” tone of voice that he was not a happy executive producer.
“Really, I will be able to take our Tuesday makeover on the air in the morning, and then consult and organize everything for our Wednesday makeover before I le
ave. Amy’s lined up, and I’ll be on the phone with her throughout the day.”
“I don’t know. This takes away from our show and you know it’s May sweeps and we do these makeovers for the ratings,” Michael said.
“I promise you it won’t interfere. I’ve done so many makeovers, and Amy has been there for most of them. I would never compromise the integrity of my work. You know that.”
Because he knew my integrity and maybe a little because Oprah was an ABC show like Live, he reluctantly agreed. Even Michael knew everyone bowed to Oprah.
“Just don’t let me know you’re gone. I need everything covered,” he said in his most irritated voice.
“Of course, Michael. You’ve got enough on your plate not to have to worry about the makeovers,” I told him, making it all about him, just the way he liked it. Why should I think this time he would make it easy for me? Life for Michael is about making his world easy, at any and all costs.
And then it hit me. How would I make it all work?
The plane to Chicago took off right on time. The flight was smooth. My seatmate was an extremely tall man who had to fold his body into the business-class seat. I was determined not to make eye contact with him because I needed this time to relax. All I wanted was something to eat to calm my overmedicated nauseous stomach. He was determined to find out who I was and why I was going to Chicago. Oprah, as always, was the magic word, and over the minimal food service of peanuts and Diet Coke plus my much-needed pain pill he talked the entire trip, making me even more anxious because I needed to change my fashion focus from makeovers to appropriate dressing.
I got off the plane and quickly saw the driver holding a sign with my name on it. So far, so good, it was only a short thirty-minute ride to Harpo’s studios. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, trying to relax before I had to gear up again. My television makeup from this morning was now feeling caked and heavy. I wished I had taken it off before I left New York.
The driver startled me, “Sorry for the delay, seems to be an accident up ahead.”
I glanced at the dashboard clock: two o’clock. I was supposed to be at the studio NOW.
“Yes, we’re en route. Delay due to a traffic accident. ETA about thirty minutes,” the driver talked into his pager.
THIRTY MINUTES. But I’m supposed to be there now.
“That was the studio wondering where we are,” he informed me as if the timing was no big deal. “Don’t worry, I’ll have you there in no time,” he assured me.
But I was not assured. He didn’t have to change, redo makeup, or get briefed on the segment. He didn’t have to appear on Oprah.
“We’re still gathering some on-the-street tape of women wearing inappropriate clothing items. But don’t worry, we’ll have time to show you the tapes when you get here on Tuesday before we go on air,” the producer told me the day before, when she was supposed to have copies of the tapes delivered to my New York hotel so I could look them over and have my thoughts ready before the show. Everyone says don’t worry, so why was I so worried? Probably because I know live television. Once the cameras rolled I would be on my own, and now I wouldn’t be prepared. Just the thought made me shake.
“We’re right around the corner,” the driver said into the pager. As we turned the corner I saw the door to Harpo Studios, a pacing intern impatiently waited.
“Ms. Kunzelman, please follow me. We need to hurry,” she said, grabbing the garment bag out of my arms and marching ahead at a rapid speed. “The producer is waiting for you in the green room.”
My stomach was in knots. My joints were protesting. I couldn’t take any more pain medication and still be able to talk coherently on TV. My anxiety was at a dangerous level. My heart was beating as if it was going to come out of my chest. As we passed the studio I heard the audience clapping. The show was already in progress.
“Hi Christine, I’m Meg. We need to rush. The show has started. We’re running a little ahead of schedule because Oprah has an event tonight.”
“If I can just look at the tapes,” I said in a nervous, high-pitched voice.
“No time, we need to get you touched up and on the set. Just watch the monitors and comment on what you see,” she said, taking my arm and rushing me to the makeup room.
“I need to change first.”
“No time, your outfit is fine,” she said looking over my wrinkled dress from the Live show. “Beck, this is Christine. You have two minutes to touch her up.”
Beck was calm and collected. I guess he was comfortable with two minutes to do hair and makeup. My lips quivered as he tried to apply fresh lip liner.
“Honey, hold still. You look great. Take a deep breath and keep those kissers in place for me.” Two minutes later he was removing the plastic cape, brushing off my shoulders with one hand, and following me down the hall with his brush, comb, and hair spray, working on my hair as we made our way to the stage. In the wings, Beck continued his primping while Meg filled me in. I was trying hard to concentrate on what she said over the noise of the show now in progress.
“Christine, focus. Look at me. We’re going to place you on the set during the next commercial. You’ll be introduced, and we’ll go right to the tape. Watch the monitor and comment on what you see, what you would change, why it’s wrong. Just keep talking as the tape rolls,” and she started walking me out onto the set.
“But we didn’t discuss the tape, I have no idea what’s on it, we didn’t rehearse, we didn’t talk through the segment, I’m coming into the middle of the show, I don’t know who the other guests are or what they have already talked about . . .” I rattled on and on, my legs throbbing so intensely I didn’t know if I could make it to the set.
“I’m sorry, this was out of my control,” Meg shouted at me in a frustrated whisper. “We started early, you were late, just wing it for God’s sake, just wing it.”
Wing it? This is not a local TV show. This is Oprah. You don’t wing it on Oprah.
Meg grabbed both of my shoulders, looked me squarely in the eyes, and said, “JUST WING IT.” I knew the conversation was over. I knew I had to get focused and control my stomach. I was so queasy from all the medication and yet I hoped it was working so I could get through this. It was time.
The bright glare of the studio lights, the murmurs of the audience, the cameras, the stage manager with his headset and clipboard, and there they were, three yellow club chairs, two occupied by women I didn’t know and a third one, empty, waiting for me. As I sat down, Beck sprayed my hair as if there was going to be a hurricane on the set. I was on the set of Oprah, with Oprah walking over to me as the stage manager counted down, “Four, three, two and . . .”
“Welcome back, we have Christine Kunzelman joining us. Christine is the author of Quickstyle, a terrific new book from Random House on accessorizing. Christine, what are the most obvious mistakes women make in dressing appropriate?” Oprah asked in her best girlfriend-to-girlfriend manner.
But where was the monitor, where was the tape? Panic set in as I saw the red light on the camera pointed right at me. My fashion experience kicked in full gear and I started talking about inappropriate dressing. Smiling, radiating into the camera just like my television coach taught me many years ago. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my producer Meg, frantically, hysterically waving her hands toward a nearby TV monitor. Two young interns held up quickly scribbled cue cards:
Tape on monitor
Go To Monitor !!
MONITOR!!!!!!!!!!
And there it was, over in the corner, a TV monitor with clips of women on the street in inappropriate clothing. Rolling along at its own pace while I was talking about something totally different. Trying to recover quickly I changed gears, “Light-color pants should always be on the looser side,” I said, trying to lower my nervous high-pitched voice. Then the two other guests, who had so far sat in total silence, amazed at what was going on all around them, decided to chime in and we all started talking at once as the tape rolled on and
on. Oprah quickly called for a commercial before we self-imploded on her exquisite yellow chairs.
Meg ran over to me, “Didn’t you see the monitor?”
“How could I see it, it’s over in the corner with people all around it,” I said, thinking at any moment I would lose my digested pain pills, airplane peanuts, and Diet Coke on the set of Oprah.
“Five, four, three, two and . . .” The stage manager counted down, clearing the set.
“Welcome back,” Oprah said. “Let’s change gears a bit.”
I thought, “Oh yes, let’s change everything.” There I sat with two women who were also experts but I had no idea in what. A pacing producer whispered into her headset, probably to defend herself to her executive producer who was in the booth going crazy that a tape was rolling on the screen as I talked about something else. Like listening to sound from one show while watching pictures from another, only unfortunately it was on the same show.
But Oprah, being Oprah, started talking about women squeezing into too small a size and all her experts, myself included, jumped in with strong opinions of right and wrong. Luckily for me, Oprah liked my opinion that it wasn’t about size, it was about fit.
“She used to be a size four and she’s going to be a size 4 regardless of how it fits her, armpits hanging out and all,” Oprah demonstrated with her arms in a swinging position.
“Exactly, Oprah, we care more about the size than the fit. If we wore a size ten five years ago we want to wear a size ten today, regardless of how we’re squeezed in,” I said, my voice now strong and controlled.
Oprah and I talked, on national television, my overly sprayed helmet hair not moving as I nodded and agreed, adding information here and there while the two other experts sat silently. It was just Oprah and me. Chatting like girlfriends over coffee. Oprah had saved my day.
Take Me Home From the Oscars: Arthritis, Television, Fashion, and Me Page 13