Everybody's Got Something (9 page)

A
s many times as I’ve been to Knoxville, or Knox-Vegas as I like to call it, this particular trip in June was special. I was to be inducted into the Women’s Basketball Hall of Fame. Despite her health woes, Mom wanted to be there. So I arranged for a private plane to first pick up my brother and his family in Houston, then stop in the Pass for Mom, Dorothy, her daughter Lauren and Sally-Ann’s daughter, Judith. With Butch was his daughter, Bianca; his son, Lawrence; and Lawrence’s very pregnant wife, Kelli. She was carrying twins! My niece Lauren looks like my sister Dorothy’s twin. She is studying to be a nurse and is currently a doctor’s assistant. Judith is the first doctor in the family…a proud graduate from my parents’ alma mater, Howard.

Anyone who has followed my journey knows that I have been blessed with an incredible family. There have been times when I’ve felt as if I almost need to hide that light under a bushel—because I was born with the jackpot: successful, community-minded, high-achieving parents who let us know how much they loved us every single day and siblings who hold me up, help me grow and make me laugh. It has been this way for almost half a century and now the loving and learning and living goes on with a whole new generation. I treasure nieces and nephews and, even though I can’t believe my brother and sisters are old enough to be grandparents, there are now grandkids and great-grandkids in the mix, too.

I know that I have cleared incredible hurdles in my career and with my health because of this family and because of this hard-earned love. I used to try to play it down, but not anymore. I am not going to apologize for the idyllic childhood and the wonderful siblings and the Christian home I grew up in. I know how blessed I am and I am thankful, but I also know it’s not that way for everyone. I was talking to a young woman recently who was going through her something and she said, “I don’t have sisters to watch my back like you do. I didn’t have the kind of mother you did.” And I said to her what I’ve begun saying to people across the country, “Then why not let the legacy of love and support start with you?” The Robertses of Pass Christian, Mississippi, didn’t spring up from a well of familial perfection. My parents worked hard to create a certain environment for us and then there was a responsibility for my siblings and me to hold up the traditions, to mend the fences when we wanted to tell each other off and keep on stepping, to keep the love going for one another and for the generations to come.

When I suggested to this young woman that she could be the one to turn the tide, the one to begin a circle of love and support with family and friends (I believe family doesn’t need to be just blood relatives), you should have seen her face. We live in a society where we believe we can change anything: our bodies, our bank accounts, our careers, our hometowns. We are mobile and proactive, and we are big dreamers. It’s the American way. But when it comes to matters of home and hearth, we too often believe that the hand we were dealt is the only one we’ve got. It’s not. People need to take more ownership and say, no I haven’t been loved. No, I don’t get along with my siblings and it has never been this way in my family, but you know what,
starting now
it is. It’s going to be different. Why not be the one to start the kind of family you’ve always wanted to be part of?

I’m blessed that I am able to do special things for my family, such as arrange a private jet when my mother’s health was failing…I never take it for granted, and they fight me every step of the way. They don’t want me to feel like they expect me to do anything extravagant for them. To the contrary, when Mom arrived at the airport, she slipped me a twenty-dollar bill. She does it every visit. She calls it “greasing my palm.” So sweet.

A number of old friends were in Knoxville for the ceremony, and I was grateful to be able to tell them about my treatment face-to-face. A group from my alma mater, Southeastern Louisiana University, made the trip from Hammond to support my entry into the Hall of Fame. They were touched that I told them personally before the rest of the world found out.

I got a chance in Knoxville to share the news with ESPN executive John Walsh and his wife, Ellen. I love them, and they were also very close to my mom. Val Ackerman, onetime president of the WNBA, I remember pulling her aside and telling her in the lobby. I remember telling Pat Summitt about my diagnosis. I wondered, how am I going to do this? Here she is, dealing with all of her health challenges. But I told her, and her embrace was more than a hug—it was as if she was physically gifting me with a wellspring of strength and courage that would be with me for months to come.

I wanted to tell my friends, as many as I could in person, because I’d learned a few things since my breast cancer diagnosis. This is how naïve I was in 2007. I thought I was just telling
GMA
viewers because they are like family. They invite us into their homes every morning for breakfast. I told everybody who is close to me, so now I’m going to tell everyone else. I didn’t realize back then that for a morning show anchor to share a major medical diagnosis on TV was a media moment that would be picked up by digital, radio, print and TV outlets all over the world. When I sat in that chair and shared my news with the
GMA
family, I didn’t think, not for a second, that it would mushroom the way it did. This time around, it was important for me to get to as many relatives and friends as I could. Being in Knoxville for my entry into the Hall of Fame was a great balance to the bad news that I had to share. The celebration of my athleticism was a reminder that “I’ve got the physical chops to deal with this.”

I knew that when I returned from Knoxville, I would go public with my diagnosis. It was time. I was going to begin pre-treatment for the transplant, which would entail having a PICC line put in my arm. PICC stands for “peripherally inserted central catheter.” It’s a small tube that’s inserted into a peripheral vein, usually in the upper arm. The line would enable my doctors to have prolonged and safer access to my veins. Since the line would stay in my arm, it would be hard to hide. It has to be bandaged to prevent infection; it has to have a sleeve cover.

The PICC line would facilitate the pre-treatment for the transplant, which would be supervised by my oncologist. It was going to be a daunting series of daily chemotherapy sessions to wipe out my entire immune system so it could be built back from scratch with new life from Sally-Ann’s stem cells.

The night before the induction ceremony, a reception was held for all the honorees and our family and friends. I had the pleasure of sharing an intimate evening with the other inductees: Olympians and National Champions Dawn Staley, Nikki McCray and Pamela McGee. Dawn was recently inducted into the Naismith Basketball Hall of Fame in Springfield, Massachusetts. While at ESPN I covered her college games at Virginia and Nikki’s at the University of Tennessee. Pamela is closer to my age. She, her twin sister, Paula, Cynthia Cooper and the legendary Cheryl Miller won back-to-back national titles at USC.

Six-foot-five Inge Nissen was one of the first Europeans to come to the US to play at one of the first powerhouses in the women’s game, Old Dominion. She also happens to have a wicked sense of humor. She had us all cracking up at the dinner. Also honored was Nancy Fahey, head coach at Washington University and the only coach in NCAA Division III history to win five national championships. She had a fun bunch of friends and players with her in Knoxville. You could hear them comin’ from a mile away…good times!

Mom caught a chill, so Butch ran back to the hotel nearby to get her a blanket. All he could find was a bedspread, so he wrapped that around Mom. It was quite a sight to see Mom in her wheelchair, draped in the hotel bedspread. But I was so happy she was there. An informal Q-and-A session, moderated beautifully by Debbie Antonelli, the esteemed basketball analyst, closed the evening. As always, Momma got in the last word. She addressed the room and said that she was thankful that she was well enough to make the trip. She said that at her lowest moment, she remembered something she had once heard: A prisoner was behind bars and had a decision to make. He could either look down at the dirt in his cell or look up, outside his window, and see the stars. Mom said, “I decided a long time ago, when I was hurting, not to look down, but rather to look up at the stars. Sitting in the audience tonight, as I look at my daughter and all of the inductees who share the stage, I am surrounded by stars.” That was Mom. She defied so many odds from her humble beginnings to become one of the most eloquent women I have ever been blessed to know.

It’s funny how you can so quickly connect the dots when you’re looking back. My mom suffered a stroke a few weeks later. This was her last trip, even though we didn’t know it at the time. She sat next to me at the induction ceremony, and Amber was on the other side. There were little signs that Mom wasn’t doing well. She was kind of quiet, especially for her.

When they called my name, my six-foot-nine nephew, Lawrence, escorted me up to the stage so I could accept my award. He played college basketball at Baylor and Mississippi State. For a few years he was in the NBA with the Memphis Grizzlies, and he is still playing professionally overseas. After I accepted my award, I saw Pat sitting to the side of the stage. I said, “You’re going to have to come over and say hello to Momma.” Sure enough, Pat came over, bent down and hugged Momma. Seeing them together like that meant so much to me. I don’t know of two braver women.

A
fter returning from Knoxville, back home in New York, I didn’t sleep much. Monday, June 11, was the day I would share the announcement of my illness with
GMA
viewers. That was because it was also the day I was to begin pre-treatment for my transplant. I kept going over in my head what I planned to say, and I couldn’t stop wondering how it would be received. The next morning, I huddled with Diane and Rich Besser in the loading dock before I returned to the studio to tell the world that I was once again facing a life-threatening illness. As I said earlier, for the longest time, the three of us considered ourselves a stealth team, contacting in secret doctors and hospitals across the country, looking for the best possible care.

Anne Sweeney, the president of Disney/ABC Television Group, made the trip from Los Angeles to join us in the studio that morning. She and Disney chairman and CEO Bob Iger had already assured me several times that I would have whatever I needed to fight this. Every time I speak with Bob, I remember when Mom had met him at a wedding in the 1980s. His assistant at the time, Karen, was getting married to Mom’s best friend’s son, Andy. I think I was a teenager before I realized “Aunt” Wanda really wasn’t my aunt. She and Mom were more like sisters growing up together in Akron. Bob wasn’t the CEO of Disney then; he was a high-ranking executive with Disney/ABC and was based in LA. Mom got his business card and told him about her very talented daughter working in Nashville. I’m sure she told him he should hire me, and a few years later, there I was.

It didn’t matter to Bob or Anne how long I would be on medical leave. Though I had literally screamed out loud when doctors first told me it would be approximately six months. The most important thing to Bob and Anne was that I return to good health. Again, such grace, and for that I am so grateful. I can’t tell you how many horror stories I’ve heard from others about losing their jobs while out on medical leave. Come on, here you are, fighting for your life—and you have to worry about your job? The constant threat of joblessness that so many patients face infuriates me beyond belief. Thanks to Bob, Anne and Ben, I knew my anchor chair would be waiting for me.

But it was much more than that. The way they rallied around me was not only a comfort to me but to Amber and my family as well. To my siblings, I’ll always be their baby sister, living the farthest from home, in New York City. With Dad gone and Mom so sick, they worried about me even more. Seeing the genuine concern from my colleagues and especially my bosses put them at ease. When I sat down on the couch with our team: Josh to my right, George to my left and Lara and Sam next to George, I noticed that the stage managers had Velcro-ed a box of Kleenex to the couch. “Never a good sign,” I joked. Then I took a deep breath, and with nothing on the teleprompter I spoke from the heart:

Up until that point in the announcement I had managed to hold it together, but as I shared the miracle of Sally-Ann being my match, I could feel the tears welling up and my voice begin to catch. “She is going to be my donor,” I said.

Sally-Ann pointed heavenward and whispered, “Thank you.”

I took her cue and joyfully said, “Yes! Thank you, Lord!”

Then I continued sharing what I knew and what I believed about the path ahead:

George, Lara and Sam all joined in assuring me that I was not alone in this battle and I recalled something that my former colleague and dear friend Chris Cuomo had shared with me. He said, “Focus on the fight, not the fright.” That is why I was so touched when Josh said, “I know I speak for everybody at home, but especially those of us on the couch. This is why you have a team. So we can be here for you. We want you to know. This is our fight, not your fight.” I was so moved. I stopped holding back the tears and reached for the Kleenex.

I know how lucky I was to have colleagues who are such close friends and to have friends who are like family. I was about to begin, literally, the battle of my life. Again. But I also felt, wholly and completely, freaking blessed.

After I made the announcement, I was numb. Our studio crew seemed to be in shock. I retreated to my dressing room with Sally-Ann. Amber was waiting for me there with other close friends. Friends who were there to comfort Amber as much as me. Not much was said nor needed to be said. Everyone in that room had known for a few months what I was facing. My cell phone wasn’t the only one buzzing constantly; so were theirs. So many people were reaching out it was overwhelming. This was the very reason I waited to go public. Already life was different, changing rapidly.

Sally-Ann and I locked eyes. Her life was different now, too. She’s beloved in New Orleans, where she has been on the air since the 1970s. In the Big Easy, I’m Sally-Ann’s baby sista. She’s a vital part of the community, having launched a mentoring program called Each One Save One. But now Sally-Ann was known far beyond the South, all across the country. I knew Sally-Ann was exhausted, so I told her to get some rest at my apartment before we headed to the hospital to begin pre-treatment chemo.

I dropped her off at home then stopped by our
GMA
office with Dr. Rich Besser. I knew the staff would have a lot of questions, and I knew that as ABC’s chief medical health editor, Rich would have answers. I wanted to ease our team’s concerns. This was new territory for all of us. How long would I be in the hospital? How long before I could come back to work? Would they be allowed to visit me, hug me?

It was standing room only in our office. We have TV monitors everywhere, and it was odd to see my announcement being played over and over on various networks. Thankfully, someone grabbed the remote and turned off all the TVs. I began by saying I knew many of them had recently battled their own health issues. Sandra and Thea, both producers, had faced their own challenges, and I called them out. I wanted them to know how their bravery inspired me. Another producer, Gary, had just had a death in the family. He had recently returned to work, and his eyes were so sad. I let the team know that he was still grieving and in need of their good wishes, too. I wanted them to know that this moment wasn’t just about me. Everybody’s got something. I wanted them to know I saw their somethings, too.

I showed the team pictures from our party on the rooftop, that beautiful Thursday night in April, after we bested the
Today
show and became the number one morning show in America. “This was the same day I was diagnosed,” I explained. “But it didn’t stop me from going to the party, dancing, doing the limbo with Sam.” I held up a photo. “Look at all of your smiling faces. There’s no reason not to continue smiling in my absence. I am confident that our team will continue to flourish, and I’ll be cheering you on from the sidelines.”

I didn’t realize that this was Will Reeve’s first day as a
GMA
intern. Will is the son of Christopher and Dana Reeve, and I had known him as a child. So much about this past year involved things coming full circle.

I first met Will’s mother in the 1990s. Dana Reeve had a daytime talk show with Deborah Roberts. I would fill in for Deb, and I remember seeing pictures of Will. He was the cutest little boy, and he would come to the studio. Dana and I would spend time talking after the show and often ran into each other at charity events.

I remember thinking, “Wow, here she is juggling her husband’s illness, being very active in the fund-raising and the research.” She believed with all of her heart that Christopher Reeve was going to walk again. He, too, was convinced he was going to walk again, and although it didn’t come true for him, it moved mountains for the spinal cord injury patients who benefit from his legacy.

I’ll never forget the first time I met Christopher Reeve. Even though he was in a chair, he had a larger-than-life presence. He was Superman in that chair. It was inspiring to see the joy with which Dana juggled the various roles in her life: caregiver of Chris, Will’s mom, media personality. She was also an actress and a cabaret singer. She was talented in so many ways.

We knew that Chris’s future was uncertain. But it was a shock when Dana, a nonsmoker, was diagnosed with lung cancer and died less than two years later. It was such a tragedy. I remember looking at Will, an orphan at thirteen, and thinking that he seemed so tiny to be facing such a monumental loss. I remember seeing the news coverage of Will at his mother’s memorial, with his older siblings. His hands were in his pockets and his head was down and I thought, “Oh, my gosh. Is he going to be okay?”

I always have such an affinity for the interns we have at
GMA
. They often reach out to me through my assistant, Sonny. So I have a lot of one-on-one meetings with the interns in my office. I also host a lunch for the interns every year, and I truly believe that I get as much as I give to them. The college students who come to work with us every summer are so creative and so energetic. I love the sparkle of infinite possibilities in their eyes. They are such bright lights, I know I’m going to be working for at least one of my former interns someday.

So I pay attention to the new faces on the studio floor. The moment I saw Will Reeve I thought, “Wow, he’s an Adonis. He’s such a wonderful combination of both his parents.” He is just this handsome, charismatic young man. He turned out okay. Better than okay. His parents did such a miraculous job with the limited time they had with him here on earth. Meeting him, you would not think he had any hardship in his life. Back at school that fall, Will wrote a paper about my announcement and the fact that it fell on his first day of work at
GMA
.

I shed a lot of tears reading Will’s paper. He embodies resilience, strength and courage.