Jay and I had been growing apart. Some of it was the natural ebb and flow of a relationship. But it was also the stress that my celebrity put not just on him or on me but on us. It took up residence in our marriage like an overbearing houseguest.
I was never ambivalent about being recognized. I liked it when people stared at me as I strolled to a great table at a nice restaurant that I’d snagged at the last minute by giving my name to the snooty hostess who suddenly turned charming. Or when people whispered and craned their necks when I walked down the aisle of a Broadway theater.
Having the identity of TODAY show anchor inured me to the insecurities that had long been percolating just below the surface. For a regular girl suddenly catapulted to the highest strata of the New York media world, it functioned like armor. In virtually any room I entered, everyone already knew who I was; I didn’t have to try to ingratiate or impress. They were all atwitter just to meet me. Johnny Carson once said the best part of being famous is that if people approach you at a cocktail party and you don’t say anything interesting, they walk away thinking they are boring.
At first, Jay got a kick out of it. When someone did a double take as we walked down the street, he’d jokingly whisper, “HRF,” our code for “high recognition factor.” It was both strange and exhilarating.
But the bigger I got—the more I was photographed and splashed across magazine covers and gossiped about—the smaller he felt. Everywhere he went, he was treated like Mr. Katie Couric. At a State dinner at the White House, I was seated at President Clinton’s table while Jay laughed—sort of—about being at “the kids’ table” on the other side of the room. But the truth was, the imbalance had become destabilizing.
In those early days, I ran on a bottomless supply of adrenaline. The TODAY show was just so much fun to do—it was such a rush to be one of the stars of a program that was creating tons of buzz. And I was getting increasingly close with Jeff Zucker. But sometimes that all-consuming partnership—and Jeff’s singular focus—threatened to eclipse my marriage. When Jay would poke his head in my home office while I was on the phone with Jeff going over the show, taking apart the competition, gossiping about the business, I’d wave and keep chatting, too obsessed with work to hang up and attend to my real life.
It started to make Jay feel less-than, which was crazy. He was far more interesting than I was—smarter, deeper, with more intriguing things to say. But in starry-eyed New York, those qualities are no match for fame. People are drawn to it; they want that white-hot light reflected back on them. And it can be a very tricky thing for the lesser-known spouse. In social situations, I used to feel so grateful when somebody genuinely engaged with Jay instead of giving him the once-over and turning swiftly back to me.
As a wife who was also the primary breadwinner, a rarity at the time, I did everything I could to protect Jay’s ego. Once when I was on Letterman, Dave said something like, “So you make all the money and your husband pays the bills?” It was such a random question and felt so off base. After all, Jay was successful in his own right.
I knew Dave’s crack, put out there on national TV, would bother Jay. So after the taping, I called the executive producer, Rob Burnett, and tearfully begged him to take that part out, which he did. And yet when Jay got the chance to raise his profile and show his smarts by becoming an on-air legal analyst, I bristled. My churlish gut reaction was Stay in your lane.
Jay and I still had a solid marriage, especially when it was just us or with family and old friends. Within the walls of our apartment, we were really happy. But the difference in our take-home pay sometimes caused tension, compounded by the fact that Jay was a spender and I was a saver, just like my parents. When he bought antiques and uniforms that satisfied his passion for wars, Civil and otherwise, I’d feel an occasional surge of resentment. I’d get upset when he gave money to a friend or a family member without telling me. Of course, it was something we should have discussed.
I wish we had gone to couples’ therapy. If Jay hadn’t gotten sick, I hope that we would have, so we could get help working through such a big change in our lives. When we started out, we were on an equal footing—a local news reporter and a promising young law associate. Then my career took off, overshadowing everything.
But none of that mattered now. In the face of a horrific diagnosis and the unthinkable prospect of losing Jay, my ambivalence and misgivings fell away. The only thing I wanted in this life was for him to get well. And I dedicated myself to doing anything I could to save him.