“You’re my children, and I’m so, so proud of you.”
A great-great-great-great-grandmother
Early in 1970, on a tour for her second book, she stopped in Cleveland, caught her heel on the airplane steps, and broke her hip. If she’d been drunk, she said later, she wouldn’t have hurt herself: “I would have been too relaxed!” On April 1 her council was to give her its Gold Key, an award she had started, whose first winner, in 1959, was Bill W. Her doctors said the hip couldn’t bear her weight, so they strengthened the other leg. She was wheeled to the dais, and when the moment came, she stood up. Bill, already very ill and short of breath, was the first on his feet in the ovation, as one guest remembered it, and the last to sit down. He gave her the key, and she spoke for twenty minutes, standing on her good leg.
That July she filled in for Bill at AA’s convention in Miami Beach, giving talks he was too sick to give; it was his last convention. He died on January 24, 1971. At his memorial service in New York she said, “He was my inspiration, and not mine alone. He was one of the most gifted human beings who ever lived on this earth.”
She and Priscilla lived in Easton now. Marty gave a weekly talk to the patients at Silver Hill, a private treatment hospital nearby, and almost never missed her home group’s Friday night meeting. From the late 1960s Priscilla slowly lost her memory to Alzheimer’s disease, and Marty cared for her at home, with paid help, for the rest of her own life. Her own health was going too: emphysema, a bad back and hips, and in 1978 a fall and what seems to have been a small stroke.
On May 8, 1976, at a gala in Washington the council called Operation Understanding, fifty-two well-known people publicly identified themselves as recovered alcoholics, among them the astronaut Buzz Aldrin, the former senator Harold Hughes and the actor Dick Van Dyke. At the press conference that morning, when the host introduced her, the others rose and cheered her, and then, as one organizer remembered it, the reporters joined in.
In July 1980 AA held its forty-fifth anniversary convention in New Orleans, the city where she had eloped fifty-three years before. For the first time women alcoholics were featured, and she was a main speaker. She came in a wheelchair, walked slowly to the podium through a long ovation, and said, her voice breaking: “Talk about tears—I can’t tell you what it feels like to be a great-great-great-great-grandmother to so many women. Because that’s what you are, all of you.”
She came home elated. Two weeks later, at home in Easton, she was pouring hot water for a cup of tea late one evening when she had a massive stroke. She died the next night, July 22, 1980, at seventy-five. Priscilla died two years later.
It’s April 1970, at a dinner in her honor. Marty M. has a broken hip, and she has been wheeled to the stage. When her award is announced, she stands up on her good leg. Bill W., very ill himself, is the first on his feet to applaud her. He dies the next winter.
Ten years later, in July 1980, she is in New Orleans, at AA’s convention. For the first time, the convention features the women of AA. She comes in a wheelchair, walks slowly to the podium, and tells them, I can’t tell you what it feels like to be a great-great-great-great-grandmother to so many women. You’re my children.
Two weeks later, at home in Connecticut, she is pouring a cup of tea when she has a stroke. She is seventy-five.
In 1939 she was the only woman alcoholic in the room. In AA’s latest survey, more than a third of its members are women.