He opens Marilyn’s mouth, sticks his finger down her throat. Marilyn vomits again and again. Pills come out. Stomach acid comes out. Everything comes out. Dean doesn’t stop. Not until Marilyn has thrown up. Not until there’s nothing left in her stomach. Then Dean picks up Marilyn, carries her to the car, lays her in the backseat. “Dean?” “What are you doing?” Marilyn whispers, weak, tired.
“Taking you to the hospital.” “No, please no. If the press finds out?” “I don’t care. You’re not dying. You hear me? You’re not dying tonight.” Dean drives, fast, very fast. Running red lights, ignoring stop signs. He reaches Cedars-Sinai Hospital in 15 minutes. He runs into the emergency room, Marilyn in his arms, shouting, “Help! Someone help! She took pills, too many pills!” Nurses rush over. Doctors come.
They put Marilyn on a stretcher, take her inside. Dean runs after them, but a nurse stops him. “Sir, you can’t go in.” “She’s my friend.” “We know, but the doctors are working. Please wait in the waiting room.” Dean steps back, runs his hands through his hair, goes to the waiting room, sits down, and waits. 1 hour passes, 2 hours pass, 3 hours pass.
Finally, a doctor comes out. He looks tired, but he’s smiling. “Mr. Martin?” Dean jumps to his feet. “How is she? How’s Marilyn?” “She’s going to live. You got her here in time. If you’d been 10 minutes later?” The doctor shakes his head. Doesn’t finish the sentence, but Dean understands.
“Can I see her?” “Yes, but she’s sleeping. We gave her a sedative. She won’t wake up until morning.” “That’s okay. I’ll wait.” Dean enters Marilyn’s room, a small room, white walls, a single bed. Marilyn is lying there, pale, thin, but breathing. Dean pulls the chair next to the bed, sits down, takes Marilyn’s hand, and stays there all night.
Morning comes. 7:30. Marilyn opens her eyes. The first thing she sees is Dean, still there, still holding her hand. “Dean.” she whispers, her voice raspy. Dean smiles. “Hi.” “You you’re still here.” “Yes, still here.” “Why?” Dean squeezes Marilyn’s hand. “Because you’re my friend. And friends don’t leave you alone in the darkest nights.
” Marilyn’s eyes fill with tears. “Last night?” “What did I do?” “You did something stupid, but it doesn’t matter because you’re still here. You’re still alive.” “I didn’t want to be alive.” “I know, but now?” “What do you want now?” Marilyn thinks, thinks for a long time, then whispers, “I don’t know.” “Then for now, you’ll keep living.
And I’ll be here with you. Okay?” Marilyn cries quietly. “Thank you, Dean. You saved my life.” “I didn’t save your life. You did. I was just just there.” 3 weeks pass, late August. Marilyn calls Dean, but this time it’s different. She’s not crying, she’s laughing. “Dean, it’s Marilyn.” “Marilyn, how are you?” “I’m good, really good.
” “Dean, I wanted to thank you.” “Thank me for what?” “3 weeks ago, that night. You gave me a second chance, a second chance to live.” “You’ll always have a second chance, Marilyn. Don’t forget that.” “I won’t, I promise.” Dean smiles. “Good. Then I’ll talk to you later.” “Talk to you later, Dean.” The line goes dead.
Dean puts down the phone, feels relieved because Marilyn is okay, Marilyn is safe. But the story doesn’t end here because 6 months later, everything changes. August 4th, 1962. Saturday night, 11:45 p.m. Dean is home watching TV with Jeanne. The phone rings. Dean answers. “Hello?” The voice on the other end is Peter Lawford, member of the Rat Pack.
But his voice is panicked. “Dean! Dean, have you tried calling Marilyn?” “No, why?” “Because I tried. She’s not answering, and and her voice sounded strange last time I talked to her, slurred, sleepy.” Dean’s heart races. “When did you talk?” “An hour ago. She called me, said goodbye, and hung up.” “Dean, I think I know her address.” Dean says.
“I’m going now.” The line goes dead. Dean grabs his keys, runs to the door. Jeanne stands up. “Dean, what’s happening?” “Marilyn, she’s in trouble again.” Dean gets in his car, drives to Brentwood, fast, very fast. But this time it’s different because Dean just got back from Las Vegas, just got back from tour, tired, late at night, and there’s traffic.
Dean reaches Marilyn’s house in 30 minutes. 30 minutes too late. He runs to the door, knocks. Marilyn, open the door. No answer. Dean tries to break the door, but it’s locked, solid. He breaks a window, climbs inside. The house is silent, dark. Dean runs to the bedroom, opens the door, and sees Marilyn. She’s lying in bed, in her clothes, eyes closed, motionless.
Dean runs, shakes Marilyn. Marilyn, Marilyn, wake up. No answer. Dean checks her pulse, nothing, checks her breathing, nothing. Dean steps back, his hands trembling, his eyes filling. “No,” he whispers. “No, no, no.” But it’s too late. Marilyn is gone. Marilyn Monroe died on August 5th, 1962. She was 36 years old.
Official report, overdose, probable suicide. Dean Martin attended the funeral, August 8th, 1962. Westwood Village Memorial Park. Few people were there. Hollywood didn’t come to Marilyn’s funeral because Marilyn was no longer profitable, no longer useful. But Dean was there, front row, crying quietly.
During the ceremony, Dean was thinking one thing, just one thing. If I’d been in town that night, if there hadn’t been traffic, if I’d arrived 10 minutes earlier, maybe maybe Marilyn would still be alive. After the funeral, Dean went home, didn’t talk to anyone, went to his room, locked the door, and cried.
For the first time, really cried, because he’d saved Marilyn once, but he couldn’t save her the second time. Years later, in 1980, Dean gave an interview. The journalist asked, “What do you remember about Marilyn Monroe?” Dean was silent for a long time. Then he spoke. “I lost Marilyn twice. Once I saved her. The second time I couldn’t. That night, August 4th, if I’d been in Los Angeles instead of Las Vegas, maybe everything would have been different. But I wasn’t, and she’s gone.
I think about it every day, every day.” The journalist asked, “Do you regret it?” Dean smiled, a bitter smile. “There’s a lot to regret, but one thing I don’t regret, going to her on August 2nd, because that night I gave her another chance, another chance to live. And she used that chance. She lived 3 more weeks, maybe happier 3 weeks, I don’t know.
But what I do know is this, that night I told her, ‘Friends never leave you.’ And I still think about that. Marilyn, if you can hear me, I want you to know I never left you. I still think about you every day.” Dean Martin died in 1995, 33 years after Marilyn, and he was buried at Westwood Village Memorial Park, the same cemetery, 200 m from Marilyn’s grave.
