Mrs. Famous

By Deborah Sharp

I was butt naked on a hospital exam table when I realized being Mrs. Famous isn't all it's cracked up to be.

My epiphany occurred during a colonoscopy. Everyone of a certain age – okay, past 50 – should have the procedure. Katie Couric even had a scope inserted from the bottom up on national TV a few years ago to check the health of her colon.

Which brings me to my husband, Kerry Sanders, pictured above. He's nowhere near as well-known as the network anchors are. But as a correspondent for NBC News, he's still seen by millions, reporting from wars and disasters, infamous trials, and the occasional cushier assignment.

For Kerry, it’s his job. But unlike selling insurance or fixing teeth, the fact that his job is on TV renders even sophisticated people star struck. Trust me on this. Let’s say my husband was at a cocktail party with Albert Einstein, Mother Theresa, and Shakespeare, all amazingly resurrected. Guests would bypass the genius, the saint, and the most famous playwright ever to make a beeline to the guy they’ve seen on TV.

''You covered Casey Anthony,'' one party-goer might say, ignoring Einstein riffing on relativity. ''What was up with that verdict?''

''Tell me,’’ another would gush, as Shakespeare scribbled sonnets unnoticed, ''what's Matt Lauer REALLY like?''

We've been married 22 years. I've become accustomed to watching people's eyes go glassy when I talk about what I do.

''I saw Kerry on the news,'' they’ll interrupt. ''Tell him I didn't like that yellow tie.''

I thought things might be different at the hospital, as several nurses arrived to prep me for my procedure. They all gathered 'round my gurney . . . and started quizzing my husband about TV. As usual, I was the invisible woman.

''Is Al Roker really as nice as he seems on the Today Show?’’ one nurse asked.

''I used to watch you reporting from Baghdad,’’ another said. ''Your eyes are SO blue.’’

''It’s funny, you look taller on TV,’’ the last nurse told him, my IV forgotten in her hand.

''Hey! Watch that needle,'' I yelled. ''Terrified patient here.’’

Finally, they wheeled me off to the colonoscopy room, leaving Kerry on his own to wait. As things got underway, I remember an open-backed gown, a chilly breeze, and insistent prodding from behind. The last thing I recall were these words from my doctor, as he began to scope:

''I still think about Kerry reporting from Hurricane Katrina.’’ Poke. Dig. Poke. ''How does he do those kinds of stories?'' Dig. Poke. Dig.

Just then, thankfully, the drugs kicked in. Away I floated to my happy place: A land with no TV, where someone – occasionally – will ask about me.

How about you? Do you ever feel overshadowed by a better-known or higher achieving family member? What is the weirdest place anyone’s ever chosen to ask you about them?

BTW, the colonoscopy results came back fine. When I called the insurance company later to iron out a billing problem, the woman on the phone noted Kerry’s name on the family policy. ''Hey, is that the same Kerry Sanders that’s on TV?’’

''Yes.'' Sigh. ''It is.''