Getting Real

by Gretchen Carlson

  As the twentieth century came to a close, I covered the Y2K event. All the reporters were on duty New Year’s Eve because people really believed that we might be facing a total technological collapse when the clock moved from 1999 to 2000. I was assigned to cover New Year’s Eve from inside The Potter’s House, the megachurch run by the evangelical superstar Bishop T. D. Jakes. There were thousands of people rocking the church that night, and after a few hours on the scene I started to get into the spirit of things. At one point, when the anchor tossed to me, I reached for an exclamation and came up with a chant borrowed from baseball games. “Let’s get ready to rumble!” I cried as the clock ticked toward midnight. Inside the church the crowds roared, “Praise the Lord!” It was dizzying.

  The world didn’t end at midnight, and I finally crawled home at 4:00 a.m. Casey was up, ready to tease me. “Let’s get ready to rumble?” he said, laughing. I defended myself, saying that was just the way the spirit moved me!

  I took out my violin publicly once in Dallas, when I played “The Star-Spangled Banner” at a Texas Rangers game. They were playing the New York Yankees. Alone on the field with my violin, in front of a crowd of over forty thousand people, challenged by the wind and brutal acoustics, I gave my all to the anthem that resonates most deeply with Americans. In that performance I reached for my soul and left the field shaking with the beauty of the experience. Then I put my violin aside, but it continued to haunt me. In the years since, I’ve had a recurring dream: I am slated to perform at an important event. Taking the stage before a huge audience, I suddenly realize that I haven’t practiced. I’m frozen with dread in the seconds before I wake up with a start. Lying in my bed with a pounding heart, I feel my violin calling to me. But I don’t know if or when I’ll pick it up again.

  • • •

  I always considered my years in the local markets—from Richmond to Cincinnati to Cleveland to Dallas—as preparation for the national stage.

  When after less than two years in Dallas I got a job offer from CBS News in New York, I was elated. Getting a national network job was like going to the big leagues in baseball. Finally, all my hard work had paid off, and I was truly ready for the job. This time there was no family conflict about moving. Casey and I both wanted to pursue our careers in New York, which was the center not only of news but of sports.

  Our first apartment was a ten-block walk from the office, and I loved the energy of the streets and being able to walk to work. In the beginning I thought I could wear my heels, but my shoes and feet were no match for the rough, cratered sidewalks of New York. I’d limp into the office with blisters and disintegrated heels. That’s when I started following the example of other women on the street, wearing sneakers or flip-flops and carrying my heels in a bag.

  I arrived in New York on the eve of the 2000 presidential election, and no sooner had I reported Hillary Clinton’s New York Senate victory on site at the Hyatt Hotel than I was packing my bags for Washington, D.C., where I’d be covering Al Gore during the recount crisis. Although the main action was in Florida, Gore was home in Washington and George W. Bush was in Texas while their lawyers and advisers fought it out. Along with many Americans, I came to wish I’d never heard the phrase “hanging chad.” Still, like all reporters, I was thrilled to be at the center of the biggest political story of our times—a contested presidential election.

  When I left for Washington, I told Casey, “I’ll be back in a few days.” Instead, I was in Washington, living at the Monarch Hotel, for weeks. Thanksgiving came and went, and the result remained up in the air. The Supreme Court ruling didn’t come until December 12, more than a month after the election.

  “Did we move to New York, or did I move to New York?” Casey asked me, only half teasing. What could I say? On the national stage, big news was always breaking—and I was there.

  My job was for Newspath, a satellite service that delivered news for local affiliates to use in their broadcasts. It was an amazing training ground. I reported on the same stories that the CBS News correspondent was reporting for the national news, except my reports were seen on local stations—one after the other. The local broadcast would cue up the news item—for example, the execution of the Oklahoma bomber, Timothy McVeigh—and then the anchor would say, “Let’s go live to CBS News correspondent Gretchen Carlson in Terre Haute, Indiana.” I’d come on at the location and greet the anchor by name: “Hi, Cathy, in Indiana today, Timothy McVeigh . . .” Then I’d give my report, and finish, “Back to you, Cathy.” On an average day I’d do thirty or more live shots, having to employ split-second timing.

  My bags were always packed because I had to be ready to travel at a moment’s notice. I covered the Vatican, the G8 Summit, the British royal family, the Super Bowl, and all the breaking news stories in between. I racked up more frequent flyer miles than when I was Miss America. It was exhilarating being on the scene for big news stories of the day. But the story that tested my mettle, as a reporter and as a person, was 9/11.

  September 11, 2001, began as an ordinary day. Casey left the apartment early for his office a few blocks away. I was home getting ready to fly to Nashville to deliver a speech. I had just come out of the shower and was in the kitchen when the news broke of a plane flying into the World Trade Center. I called Casey to tell him about it, and he and a colleague went outside where they could look straight downtown. That’s when the second plane hit.

  I knew I wasn’t going to Nashville. I called the office and they were summoning all the reporters in Manhattan to get there fast. I quickly got dressed and raced to CBS, where I learned that the Pentagon had been hit. My boss grabbed me and said, “I need you to go to the scene.”

  I was scared. “Do you know what will happen to us if we go down there?” I asked.

  He shook his head, anxiety creasing his face. “No.”

  I went to my desk, and for the first time in my career I cried. I felt the unfathomable pain of the people lost that day, and to be honest I thought I was going to die that day too. I was sure I’d be swallowed up in the inferno of lower Manhattan. I called Casey and told him tearfully, “I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I have to go down there.” Later, when people told me they admired all the brave reporters who rushed to Ground Zero to bring news of the attacks into American living rooms, I thought of my tears and how afraid I was. I wasn’t an intrepid reporter at that moment. I was terrified. Still, I went.

  As we sped downtown, the plumes of smoke rising in the air ahead of us, I could see waves of people streaming uptown. They were desperate to get away, and we were maneuvering to get closer. We couldn’t get too close. Satellite trucks were set up on the West Side Highway, blocks from the site. Once on the scene, I forgot to be afraid and just started reporting. In the days that followed I filmed live reports from outside the pit, relaying the heartbreaking news that the courageous diggers on the pile were no longer looking for survivors, just bodies. I stood with my camera panning the hundreds of pleas tacked to walls and fences, trying to steady my voice and keep the tears at bay. Viewers didn’t want to see a blubbering reporter on the screen. They craved information.

  Working long days, trying not to be consumed by the horror around me, I’d arrive home late at night, covered with grime. The terrible smell clung to me even after a long shower. Only when I finally curled up in bed at midnight next to Casey did I turn on the TV and watch the reports. Then the full impact would hit me and I’d lose it, crying for all the heartsick mothers, fathers, children, friends, and lovers. Sleep would not come for a long time. I’d get up at 5:30 and go right back down there. More than any other story, 9/11 gave me a deeper appreciation for what it meant to be a journalist. When the nation is desperate and confused, you are their lifeline. I was exhausted, tense, and grief-stricken, but every single day I stood on the street, with a backdrop of pure horror, looked into the camera, and calmly reported what I saw and heard.

  For those of
us living and working in Manhattan, it could sometimes seem as if time had stopped and there would never be another story. But gradually normalcy resumed. When my time at Ground Zero ended, I had mixed feelings. I was emotionally connected to the downtown community, but I was also relieved to see that life had other dimensions besides horror and tragedy.

  Soon after 9/11, CBS asked me to fill in on The Saturday Early Show. I was excited about the opportunity; it’s something I had been angling for. Weeks before my debut I agonized about every detail, including what I would wear. I had many telephone conferences with my mother and finally settled on a powder blue Calvin Klein pantsuit.

  I was so nervous that I didn’t sleep at all the night before my first show, but it went well. After I filled in a few times, they offered me a permanent slot. I was thrilled to be coanchoring with Russ Mitchell, a real pro and a wonderful human being, who had been with CBS since 1992. He welcomed me warmly, showed me the ropes, and made me feel completely comfortable. I owe him a lot. A few years later Russ left CBS to become the lead anchor at WKYC in Cleveland, my old stomping ground.

  I loved the morning show because it had a little bit of everything. Each broadcast opened with hard news. Then we’d move to interviews. There was a segment called the “Second Cup Café,” which featured a musical performance. And we wrapped it up with cooking. My favorite segment was “Chef on a Shoestring,” where we invited the great chefs of New York City to cook meals for under twenty dollars. It was a real perk to meet these chefs and dine at their restaurants. For one segment, Bobby Flay came to my apartment and I cooked for him. He was gracious and flattering, even when he found out I used crumbled Cheez-Its as the mystery ingredient for the top of my chicken divan.

  The Saturday show was only one of my jobs. I also moved from Newspath to CBS News proper, and three days a week I reported for the CBS Evening News with Dan Rather. I was busy, but my life was more settled. I wasn’t traveling as much. The stars were aligning for me to start a family.

  Chapter 8

  My Miracle Family

  From the time I was a little girl, I always knew I wanted to be a mom and pictured myself having at least two or three children. Growing up in a loving family, I often thought about recreating the same kind of nurturing environment for my own kids. While I was building my career, I didn’t worry about fertility. It was just a matter of timing, and I believed I had a wide window during my thirties to start my family. My women doctors reinforced this belief that fertility wasn’t an issue for me. I never heard the truth, because everyone, including me, thought that women could have it all—a great career and a family—and there was no reason to cut my career advancement short. It was okay to wait to have children until I was established.

  So when Casey and I decided the time was right, I had no concerns, even though I was thirty-five. Fertility ran in my family! My mom had four kids, and Kris, who was older than me, got pregnant right away. Piece of cake, right?

  But after six months and no results, my doctor suggested I have a blood test to check the status of my eggs. The FSH (follicle-stimulating hormone) test is a noninvasive way of finding out how many eggs you have in reserve. A high FSH number signals a problem. It means that your system has to pump out more of the hormone because you don’t have many eggs in reserve.

  I couldn’t believe it when my number came back high. The doctor casually remarked that I seemed to have prematurely aging eggs. “It doesn’t mean you don’t have one or two great eggs in there, but overall it doesn’t look good.” She recommended a fertility specialist.

  Never in a million years had I expected this, and I was still in denial when I walked into the fertility doctor’s Park Avenue office. When I sat down, he looked at my test results, frowning, and told me, “These numbers are not good at all. Have you considered a donor egg?”

  “What? What do you mean?” I suddenly felt dizzy.

  He patiently explained, “With numbers like these, the best option might be for you to consider a donor egg—that is, your husband’s sperm and someone else’s egg.”

  I fled, bruised by his cold indifference. He didn’t even know me, and he was already farming out my pregnancy. I got out to the street, barely keeping it together. Sinking onto a bench across from the Plaza Hotel, I called my mother, sobbing. “Do you think that’s what I’m going to end up doing?” She tried to comfort me, but honestly she didn’t know the answer. “I don’t want to have someone else’s baby,” I cried. “I want to have my baby.”

  But everywhere I went, doctors kept telling me it was a long shot. My chances of getting pregnant were deemed in the single digits. They decided to start me on a course of Clomid, a drug to encourage ovulation, but they said it probably wouldn’t work. I kept thinking about my aging eggs and wanted to despair.

  It was a very difficult time for me. I was heartbroken at the thought that I might never have children. Every day I came to work carrying a silent grief. Infertility is a private, secret problem. Only my doctors, those closest to me, and God knew about it. I later heard from many women who told me they didn’t tell people about their struggles with fertility. There’s a shame attached, an anguish that can’t be shared. I prayed for acceptance, no matter what happened.

  In the meantime, I was sent for an outpatient procedure called a hysterosalpingogram. It involves placing an iodine-based dye through the cervix and taking X-rays to help evaluate the shape of the uterus and whether the fallopian tubes are open or blocked. In the process it would “clean” my tubes—similar to blowing air into a clogged straw to get rid of dust.

  The procedure was supposed to be no big deal—thirty minutes in and out. Casey was out of town on the West Coast, but my good friend Carrie Rabin, who was my field and segment producer at CBS Newspath, went with me. I refused the Valium they offered me in advance because I’d be returning to work. Big mistake. When they blew in the dye it felt as if a gun had gone off inside me. I screamed. It was the most pain I’d ever experienced, and I had barely recovered from the shock when a smiling doctor told me, “Good news, your tubes are clear.”

  It was full speed ahead for me to start taking Clomid at the beginning of my cycle, which was two weeks away. Casey and I were scheduled to take a cruise through Europe, and I had my supply of Clomid with me so I could start as soon as my period came. We flew to Paris and I felt lousy the whole time. I had cramps and couldn’t sleep. We did a tour of Normandy, which is amazing, but I felt sick the whole time. After boarding the ship in Normandy, we docked and wandered through picturesque villages in the Bordeaux region. In a cave in Saint-Émilion we came upon a chair carved of rock, which was said to be a fertility chair. Legend had it that a woman sitting in the chair and praying would become pregnant within two months. I hung back while the others on the tour went through. Then I sat in the chair and said a prayer.

  Back on the ship I was still feeling unwell. My period was late, and suddenly it dawned on me that I should buy a pregnancy test. When we docked in Lisbon, I snuck off to a pharmacy. They didn’t speak English, so I pantomimed, saying, “Le baby, le baby,” and they finally figured it out. I took the test back to the ship. It is recommended that you take it first thing in the morning, and it was five in the afternoon, but I couldn’t wait. Alone in the cabin I went into the bathroom and peed on the stick.

  I sat on the bed and counted off the minutes, feeling scared about the result. I was so brainwashed about my lousy fertility at that point, I figured it would probably be negative. Finally, I got up my courage and crept back into the bathroom, hardly daring to look. And then I saw it—the blue line. I almost passed out. I was pregnant!

  When Casey walked into the room I threw myself at him, waving the test and crying. “Look, look, the test is positive!”

  The first words out of his mouth were, “We can’t trust a Portuguese test!”

  “Oh, come on,” I said, not believing him. “It’s a pregnancy test. You can’t be
half pregnant.”

  But Casey insisted we immediately go to the ship’s doctor. “What’s the doctor supposed to do?” I asked grumpily. “I’ll bet they don’t even have pregnancy tests.” I was right. The doctor cheerfully agreed to get a pregnancy test at a Lisbon pharmacy the next day.

  As we walked out, I said, “Casey, you realize he’s going to go to that same pharmacy that I was just at, don’t you? The one you don’t trust?” It was comical. Casey looked sheepish. I laughed. I didn’t care. I knew.

  The next morning I went to the doctor and took a second test. I was still pregnant! I couldn’t even explain the miracle to myself. Maybe it was having my tubes “cleaned.” Maybe I’d stopped worrying and relaxed because it seemed impossible. Who knows—maybe it was the fertility chair. Whatever the reason, I was thrilled. I e-mailed the fertility doctor who had recommended a donor egg, to tell him I didn’t need his services after all. He wrote back that he was shocked.

  I had met an amazing woman on the ship, a New Yorker named Dale Reiss. She was a top executive at Ernst & Young, and the first woman to be admitted to the New York Athletic Club. We liked each other immediately, and that night on the ship Casey and I had dinner with Dale and her husband. There was a storm and the ship was rocking and rolling, but I felt serene, not sick, because I knew I was pregnant. When the waiter came for our drink orders, I asked for sparkling water. Dale smiled at me and said, “Are you pregnant?” No alcohol—that was the giveaway. She was the first person to hear the news, even before my mother.