- Connie Chung is a trailblazing journalist for NBC, CBS, and ABC who paved the way for many women.
- This is an adapted excerpt from her memoir "Connie."
- "Connie" explores Chung's journalism career and struggles as an Asian woman in television news.
CBS was in ratings hell.
With no prime-time hit dramas, entertainment executives asked Andy Lack and me to produce two special May editions of our program for Mondays at 10 p.m. (in addition to our regular Saturday Night program). Even though it doubled our workload, we were excited to seize the opportunity to reach new viewers.
We named our specials "Face to Face with Connie Chung." News programs often rescued a network with holes in its schedule for the simple reason that they were cheap to produce — less than half a million dollars per episode, compared to entertainment shows' budgets that ran into the millions.
My show was scheduled to air during prime rating time
At the annual meeting with advertisers, CBS announced that my program would air on Mondays, the strongest night on the network. I would follow two back-to-back hit sitcoms produced by and starring women: at 9, "Murphy Brown," created by Diane English, a show about a newswoman with a cutting, biting attitude, masterfully played by star Candice Bergen; and at 9:30, "Designing Women," created by Linda Bloodworth-Thomason, a show about an interior decorating firm in the South.
With the only two winning half hours running before us, we were ensured a captive audience at 10 p.m. In television land, that's known as a strong "lead-in." "Murphy Brown" and "Designing Women" were guaranteed to deliver our specials a hefty audience.
When the "Face to Face" specials posted better ratings than even the blockbuster sitcoms, we became the toast of the town. CBS Entertainment rewarded us by placing us on the coveted Monday schedule for the fall. After being buried in the Saturday-night dungeon, we could now shine. I was overwhelmed by that huge vote of confidence.
My show was canceled before it premiered
All that happened in May. As spring became summer, I was terribly anxious, knowing that in the fall I'd be the only correspondent on "Face to Face," which meant traveling all week long to shoot interviews and stories, then heading back to New York so I could anchor "Face to Face" and the Sunday CBS Evening News. I knew it would be a brutal schedule, but I was thrilled to have a hit and was eager to make it last.
Faced with that load, I knew the only way to get ahead of the game was to use June, July, and August to bank stories for the fall. Having a bushel of reports including investigations and exclusive interviews shot and in the can would help me breathe a bit more easily. Yet we were not doing that. Our offices were not buzzing with activity. Andy Lack retreated to the Hamptons for long weekends.
Why? I could not figure it out. I kept pressing Andy about the need to work every day throughout the summer.
By August, I was beginning to truly panic. Then Howard Stringer called me at home. What he said on the telephone took me completely by surprise. Howard announced "Face to Face with Connie Chung" would not be on the CBS schedule after all — we were canceled before we even premiered. No explanation as to why.
He had simply decided to try a new drama, "The Trials of Rosie O'Neill," in our time slot. The show's producers had been campaigning for Monday nights at 10. (Actress Sharon Gless, of "Cagney & Lacey," was the star.) Even though I was crestfallen, I knew this kind of last-minute switcheroo was part of the business, so I reluctantly accepted the decision.
I was told to say my fertility journey was the reason my show was canceled
What followed was shocking. Howard knew I'd had a few miscarriages and that we were still trying to have a baby. He suggested I use my efforts to start a family as the excuse for the sudden disappearance of my new program. In other words, he wanted me to use my personal situation and take the fall for the cancellation of my program. I was so surprised I did not ask why.
I discussed Howard's proposal with my husband. I had to think clearly.
Here is one of the reasons I thought I should agree. Since I was in my late 40s, Maury and I had privately turned to fertility doctors for artificial insemination and in vitro fertilization (IVF). Daily injections and the extraction of my eggs under anesthesia on a strict schedule made traveling for stories a logistical nightmare. My age and workload were working against me. I knew I could not do it all.
Was Howard's proposal my saving grace? Was it a way out of my conundrum? He insisted I give him an answer quickly so that he could announce the new fall schedule the following week. Since Howard was the boss, I had always thought he had my best interests in mind and would never let me hang out to dry. So I agreed to the party line — like the obedient, dutiful employee in the face of power.
I should not have agreed to Howard's subterfuge. I should not have taken the blame for the cancellation of my program. What a gigantic mistake. I had not anticipated what was to come.
That weekend Maury helped me compose a statement to release to the news media. With my draft in hand, I met CBS News Vice President Joe Peyronnin in his office to thrash out the final wording.
After the announcement, my journey to start a family was mocked
One phrase in the statement became the punch line of comedians' jokes — that we were "aggressively" pursuing having a baby. What we meant was that we were seeking extraordinary measures such as in vitro fertilization and artificial insemination. We did not spell it all out in the announcement, thinking we could at least keep those details private. We foolishly did not realize that using the word "aggressive" was an invitation to mockery.
When I broke the news to our magazine staff (just before the statement was released), I abided by the party line — the baby excuse. It was a difficult announcement to say the least. Everyone on the staff was gracious, but I knew it was crushing news. I was also taking the blame for their uncertain futures.
With the baby announcement out, I unwittingly became the poster child for the story of the older career woman who wants to have a baby.
People magazine called for an interview, but I would not answer any questions. Instead, I begged and pleaded with People to kill the story, explaining I had not intended for this to be a big deal. People purchased a photo from a photographer and slapped my face on the cover with the headline "I Want a Child." Truly mortified, I wanted to hide.
While I talked to no reporters, the media had a field day. One writer was particularly snarky — Elinor J. Brecher of the Miami Herald, who said I was being paid to "roll around in the sack, take her temperature and run to the doctor. She's welcome back when she gets pregnant or bored, whichever comes first."
Enduring IVF can be a difficult process
Any couple who has undergone IVF or even artificial insemination knows the process is anything but a roll in the hay. I don't remember all the details, but I can't forget giving myself daily subcutaneous shots in my stomach and injections of Pergonal with a long syringe in my buttocks. Some women ask their husbands to administer the shots, but Maury was too freaked out by it. I was told to practice on a banana and found it to be easy. The shots helped to stimulate more eggs to develop in my ovaries. Bottom line: the process is about as unromantic as anyone can imagine.
Nurses drew my blood daily to determine when my estrogen was at its peak, which was when the doctor would extract my eggs, of which I produced several. Just before I underwent general anesthesia to remove the eggs — how can I put this? — Maury would "submit" his sperm. If I may add, the nurses would put his collection up on monitors and marvel at how his sample swam furiously, filling every inch of the TV screens. "Oh, Mr. Povich," the nurses exclaimed, "what motility!" Walking tall, Mighty Maury strutted out of the doctor's office.
After extracting my eggs, the doctor fertilized all of them in a petri dish and waited for viable embryos.
A few days later, the fertilized embryo or embryos would be implanted in my uterus. I had several biochemical pregnancies, as they are called. We would get a positive result on a pregnancy test, but in a few short weeks, we would learn that the embryo had not attached to my uterus. So the embryo would be expelled.
That's when I would ride the emotional roller coaster. Knowing it was not normal for me to cry uncontrollably, I sought advice from my doctor, who told me it was simply the dramatic loss of estrogen. Once I learned that, I felt comforted, knowing my emotional state was purely hormonal and I was still in control. That fact was important to me.
I realized my miscarriages were connected to my autoimmune issues
Those were the ups and downs of the baby game. I don't envy any couples who must try this process. After several years of IVF, I figured out why I could conceive yet kept having early miscarriages. I have autoimmune issues, which caused my body to reject any embryo we created. I was incredibly annoyed when news reports stated I could not conceive. Wrong. I could not hold on to our embryo.
Since IVF was still new and information lacking, it took good old-fashioned investigative reporting for me to come to my own conclusion — working the phone and talking to experts, doctors, and scientists to figure out my problem. Today science is closer to uncovering the details of my problem and perhaps those of other women.
Since it was not advisable to undergo IVF every month, I was able to travel to cover and shoot stories. I substituted for Dan Rather and on the CBS Morning Program, anchored my news on Sundays, and much more. Anybody who thought I was lollygagging was dead wrong.
Later, women friends in the news business confided that watching my quest to have a baby was a wake-up call for them. Just like me, they'd allowed their careers to swallow their personal lives. Those friends began getting married and having babies (or vice versa) at late ages. I witnessed a mini baby boom. It was the one part of this horrible episode that gratified me. At least others had learned from my experience.
Adapted from CONNIE: A Memoir, published on September 17, 2024. Copyright © 2024 by Connie Chung. Used by arrangement with Grand Central Publishing, a division of Hachette Book Group. All rights reserved.