Finally, I address certain viewers in particular: “For all of you who may be struggling with a life-threatening disease right now and wondering how the world can keep going, business as usual, just know that my heart goes out to you.”
Matt throws to Ann at the news desk, and once again the show is live.
I interviewed former Secretary of State James Baker and Monica Lewinsky’s lawyer William Ginsburg. In the sofa area, our attention turned to Pop-Tart flavors; I laughed and said how much I’d missed these conversations. It felt good to be back.
In Time magazine, Roger Rosenblatt complimented the way I’d handled my return, calling it a much-needed “tasteful” break from the incredibly tawdry news cycle the American people were stuck in. Michele Greppi of the New York Post saw it differently, suggesting I’d worn Jay’s ring around my neck to drum up sympathy, which left me feeling wounded and angry.
What won the day was the indescribable kindness that made me feel as “safe, sane, and secure” at work as Jay had made me feel at home. From the executives to the camera crews to the producers to the people in the control room, everyone at NBC was so gentle with me, leaving notes on my desk, hugging me. It gave me a soft landing as I tried to adjust to my new life—dealing with my pain behind the camera, trying to do my job as well as I could in front of it.
Thomas Jefferson said, “The earth belongs to the living.” I was determined to heed those words and build on the life Jay and I had started. I couldn’t bring him back. But I was still here, and so were my daughters. God willing, we had many years ahead of us.
41
The Aloneness
WIDOW.
The word conjures the image of a ghostly woman in Victorian black, her face obscured by a lace mourning veil. There but not there—shattered by loss.
I hated the word. And now it described me.
I tried to summon Jay in my dreams. Before I succumbed to the emotional and physical exhaustion I felt every day, I’d ask him to show me some kind of sign—to make his presence known. By daylight, I could never remember if he had. I do remember waking up at the strangest times: 1:11 a.m., 2:22 a.m., 3:33 a.m. Was that Jay’s way of telling me he was watching over us?
I wanted to believe that he was in a better place, that death had brought deliverance and eternal life. I longed for the kind of deep faith that could ward off the bitter chill of grief.
As we’d learned, the tragic death of a fellow resident who’d left behind a wife and two small children was no match for the bylaws of a Park Avenue co-op. That said, looking for a new place to live provided a welcome distraction.
I didn’t want to disrupt the girls’ lives any more than they already had been. The adventure of moving from one apartment to another （we’d lived in four over the past six years, as leases longer than two years were hard to come by） was getting old. I yearned for something permanent, where the three of us could put down roots.
I wanted to find something cozy, cheerful, and, most important, in the Carnegie Hill neighborhood, home to our favorite playgrounds, coffee shop, children’s shoe store, and families.
By some miracle, a real estate agent told me, a nice apartment on Park, just two blocks away, was about to go on the market. It was around the corner from the 92nd Street Y, where Carrie would be going to preschool, and close to Spence, where Ellie would spend the next nine years. I felt lucky to have found it—the first time in nearly a year I’d felt lucky about anything.
The only problem with the apartment was that it needed a lot of love—updating, freshening up, a new kitchen—and the renovation would take a year. I wanted it to be our home for a long time and really needed it to feel right. So while the work was being done, we decided to pull an Eloise and live in a hotel—the Surrey, about 15 blocks away.
It was a strange existence. My TODAY show wardrobe hung on long racks right there in the living room. We’d cook macaroni and cheese on the small stove in the kitchenette or go around the corner to Three Guys for burgers, omelets, and fries at Madison Avenue prices. It felt a bit like we were camping out—in style.
Even in my grief haze, I was well aware of how fortunate I was to have these options and care for my girls free of financial worry. So many women, whether divorced or widowed, have found themselves blindsided by circumstances that pushed them to the brink of poverty.
But financial security was little comfort when one of the girls got sick and Jay wasn’t standing by to absorb my distress and help devise a plan of action. One night my friend Nancy Armstrong, an ABC producer who’d married one of Jay’s childhood friends, came to visit. Carrie had a terrible, barking cough that grew worse as the night wore on （the croup, of course）。 When it got to the point where she was having trouble breathing, I swung into action, bundling her up and asking Nancy to stay with Ellie, then rushing downstairs and heading to the ER. Nancy remembers looking out the window and seeing me on the deserted avenue cradling my inconsolable child while trying to hail a cab—not a celebrity with a team of assistants tending to her every need, but a scared single mom doing the best she could.