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To anyone who is facing what seems to be an insurmountable struggle, may you find comfort, strength, and hope in Betty Ford’s story.
And to Clint—
Like Betty Ford, your courage and resilience epitomize the capability of the human spirit. I am beyond grateful for your unwavering support, love, and incomparable wisdom. It is truly a blessing to have you by my side throughout this journey.
FOREWORD
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She was known by many names: First Lady, Betty, Gramma, Second Lady, Mrs. Ford, Elizabeth Bloomer; in fact, she even came to be known as a location: “He went to Betty Ford.” I knew each of those names, but I proudly called her by another: Mom.
Mom has been gone for nearly seven years. Yet the permanence of her various names and their examples for future generations shine today as brightly as ever.
Mom wrote two autobiographical books. The first was a memoir written shortly after we left the White House. The second was the poignant story of her journey to confront (and eventually triumph over) breast cancer, alcoholism, and addiction to painkillers. So when Lisa McCubbin approached me regarding her plans to write a book about Mom, I was skeptical. Surely, I told Lisa, everything that could or should be written about Mom had long since been written and relegated to the history stacks; what relevance could Mom have today, especially to the current generation of young women and girls? Needless to say, and as readers will experience throughout Lisa’s narrative, my skepticism has been shattered. Quite simply, Lisa has given voice to what is apparent: this would have been Mom’s third book.
There was a time when the notion that “a woman’s place is in the home” was commonplace—Mom showed by word and deed the folly of that paradigm. There was a time when the words breast and cancer were never uttered in public, much less together—but Mom, as first lady, brought both words permanently into the public square by announcing “I have breast cancer.” From that moment on, women’s health care around the world changed forever. There was a time when alcoholism and addiction to painkillers ravaged our nation, hidden in complete silence and shame—but Mom’s very public conquest of those diseases and her creation of the Betty Ford Center erased the silence and shame. There was a time when women’s rights and equality of opportunities for women were ignored by policy makers—but Mom’s unwavering voice for the Equal Rights Amendment, Title IX, and the rights of women in the workplace and elsewhere forced those issues into the mainstream. And there was a time when the wife of a national leader would never even consider advocating policies diametrically opposite those of her husband and his supporters—but Mom (and Dad) showed America that disagreeing, without being disagreeable, could (and should) be an acceptable norm for such discussions.
Readers will learn about the extraordinary efforts Mom and others made to confront those challenges and the lessons young people today can learn from their efforts.
But if readers think they’re about to embark upon nothing more than a journey of continuous personal achievements, White House gossip and intrigue, and stories of an idyllic family and a Midwestern wife’s healthy and blissful ninety-three years, they will find those expectations misplaced. With impeccably researched personal and historical details, this book paints a life’s tapestry of joy, heartache, accomplishment, and work yet to be done. There are passages that inspire; others that evoke tears of sadness; others that are hilarious; and, yes, even portions that I personally may have preferred to have been omitted.
In short, this is the story of Betty Ford, told with honesty, compassion, and candor. And, in the end, a finer embodiment of what Mom would have expected from such a book there could never be.
I miss her.
Susan Ford Bales
April 2018
PROLOGUE
* * *
“We’re Doing This Because We Love You”
April 1, 1978. It was a day everyone there would remember with such visceral, painful clarity that talking about it decades later would still trigger tears and a lump in the throat. As they walked past the olive tree and up to the front door, there was a heavy silence in the desert air. Each of them held a piece of paper scrawled with dark secrets none of them had ever dared speak. They knew that what they were about to do would break her to pieces. For all of them, it was the hardest thing they’d ever had to do, but they’d all agreed there was no other choice. They loved her too much to lose her.
Inside, Betty Ford, a week shy of her sixtieth birthday, had no idea what was about to happen. She had risen, gone through her normal morning routine, and was dressed, as usual, in her quilted pink satin robe. She rarely wore makeup these days, and it was almost hard to believe that just fifteen months earlier she’d been first lady of the United States and had appeared on national television with her hair perfectly coiffed, makeup camera ready, wearing a well-coordinated sweater and skirt as she gave ABC News correspondent Barbara Walters a tour of the residential quarters of the White House. Betty had always dressed well—her love of fashion was born out of years as a model and dancer—but somehow her world had spiraled into such despair that these days that pastel robe had become her fashion statement. None of the others would be able to recall what he or she was wearing, but they’d all remember Betty’s pink robe.
Outside, Dr. Joseph Pursch looked at his watch and said, “It’s time.” He made eye contact with each of them—a final reassurance that what they were about to do was absolutely necessary. It was a matter of life or death.
There were twelve of them all together: Betty’s devoted husband, Gerald R. “Jerry” Ford, the thirty-eighth president of the United States; two doctors; a nurse; Jerry’s executive assistant, Bob Barrett; Betty’s personal assistant, Caroline Coventry; Clara Powell, the family’s former household helper, who had been like a second mother to the Ford children; oldest son Mike and his wife, Gayle; and the Fords’ three other adult children, Jack, Steve, and Susan. For the intervention to work, Dr. Pursch, a psychiatrist, had told them they all had to be there, and it was critical for them to present a strong and united front.
The word intervention was a foreign term to most of them just forty-eight hours earlier—for in 1978, it was a relatively new approach—but in the time they’d all gathered in Rancho Mirage from various points across the country, they had been quickly schooled in how it would work.
President Ford had been on the East Coast in the middle of a three-city speaking tour when Susan had called in tears.
“Dad,” she pleaded, “you need to come home immediately. Mom is in a bad way.”
The former president had been able to get his old friend and onetime secretary of state Henry Kissinger to fill in for him, and had flown in on a private jet from Rochester, New York, just hours earlier.
They had gathered in President Ford’s office, which was conveniently located in the house next door to the Fords’ new residence at the end of Sand Dune Road.
“This is not going to be pleasant, is it?” President Ford had asked.
“No,” Dr. Pursch responded. “It never is. But it’s the only thing to do. When it works, it works beautifully and is lifesaving.”
Twenty-eight-year-old Mike Ford feared what his mother’s reaction might be. Caroline Coventry, also twenty-eig
ht, had fallen into the job as secretary to the former first lady just seven months earlier and had spent more time with Mrs. Ford than any of them during that time. She recalled being “scared to death.”
Jack, the second-born son, who was twenty-six at the time, had been the hardest to convince to join in the intervention. He had given up hope that his mother’s problem could ever be corrected. “After you’ve buried somebody three times over,” he said, “you’re reluctant to start shoveling dirt again.” He was afraid they’d just be hurting her gratuitously.
Steve had driven down from Los Angeles that morning, having no idea how this was going to work, but he was in. At twenty-three, he was the youngest of “the boys,” and as he’d headed east on Interstate 10, his thoughts went back to all the times he’d been hurt by his mother’s behavior. Still, the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her in return.
It was Susan, the youngest member of the family, who had called for this urgent meeting—indeed, she had demanded it. After leaving college the previous year, she had moved to Palm Desert and lived in a condo not far from her parents’ new home in Rancho Mirage. Living there, she’d seen her mother’s dramatic decline: the way she shuffled when she walked and how her speech was slow and slurred, even in the mornings, well before her usual five o’clock cocktail. None of them understood what was going on, but it had reached the point where something had to be done.
Just two days earlier, Susan and Caroline had confronted Betty, staging their own mini-intervention with the help of their gynecologist, Dr. Joe Cruse, who was himself a recovering alcoholic. They had gone to the house and approached her while she was in her study. At first, Susan tried a gentle approach.
“Mom, you need to stop taking all these pills,” she said. “I don’t like what it’s doing to you.”
But they hadn’t caught her early enough in the morning—Betty was already under the influence of whatever combination of medications she’d taken with her morning tea—and she immediately became defensive.
“Well, I am stopping. I’ve cut out this pill, and I’ve cut down on that one . . .”
Dr. Cruse began telling his story: how he had been an alcoholic, and the destruction it had caused in his life until he got sober. And then he told Betty there was no doubt in his mind that she, too, was chemically dependent.
What a bunch of pips they are to have dreamt this up, Betty thought. How dare they gang up on her like this. After a while, she’d had enough.
She stood up, her eyes glaring. “You’re all a bunch of monsters!” she screamed. “Now, get out of here! Get out of my house and never come back!”
Just two days later, those words and the bitter anger on her mother’s face were still fresh in Susan’s mind.
No, it was not going to be pleasant.
Mike and Gayle walked up to the door, as the others stood a few feet away, just out of sight. With a firm hand, Mike knocked. Collectively, the twelve of them held their breath.
Betty was startled by the knocking and wondered who it might be. She wasn’t expecting anyone—especially at this hour on a Saturday—and her Secret Service agents hadn’t alerted her that anyone was coming. When she opened the door, she could hardly believe her eyes.
“Mike! Gayle! What are you doing here?” She broke into a huge smile and reached out to hug them. “What a wonderful surprise!”
Her first thought was that they’d come because they’d heard she wasn’t feeling well. Or maybe it was to celebrate her birthday. Turning sixty was, after all, one of those milestones. And then, out of the corner of her eyes, she saw the others. No one was yelling “Surprise!” They were all stone-faced, somber. Like someone had died.
And there’s Jerry. What is Jerry doing home? He was supposed to be giving a speech in—where was it?—New York or North Carolina or someplace? She could never keep his schedule straight. Ever since they’d “retired,” he’d been traveling just as much as when he was in Congress. But she knew he wasn’t supposed to be home for at least a couple more days.
A sinking feeling started coming over her as they trooped inside. Jerry took her by the hand and led her through the foyer and down the two steps into the expansive sunken living room. There was an uncomfortable silence as everyone else followed.
“Mother,” Jerry said gently—ever since they’d had children, he’d always called her “Mother”—“sit down. We’ve got something we want to talk to you about, and we want you to listen because we love you.”
The room had a light, airy feeling and was set up for conversation and entertaining. A large sofa faced the floor-to-ceiling white brick fireplace, with four overstuffed chairs, two on each side, all surrounding a square coffee table in the middle. Two high-backed wicker chairs provided additional seating. Behind the sofa were three sets of sliding glass doors that led to a patio overlooking the thirteenth fairway of the Thunderbird Country Club golf course. Long drapes in a floral fabric of soft green, blue, and white matched the upholstered furniture. The cheerful yet soothing palette had been chosen to complement the enormous painting that hung on the far wall and was the focal point of the room: John Ulbricht’s stunning portrait of Betty, dressed in an elegant pale-green silk gown, which had been presented to her at the White House.
The woman in the pink robe barely resembled the first lady in the painting, and as they all took their places, it was as if the woman on the wall was there as a reminder of the mother and wife everyone wanted back so desperately. Jerry guided Betty to the sofa, as the others moved to sit in particular chairs, and it was obvious to Betty that this had all been choreographed without her knowledge.
Anger was building inside her. Who was behind this? Jerry? Susan? Dr. Joe Cruse, who had betrayed her two days earlier?
Jerry was the first to speak. “This is Dr. Joe Pursch and nurse Pat Benedict,” he said, nodding toward them. She, of course, knew everyone else. Then he took her hand and said, “Betty, the reason we’re here is because we love you.” You could tell he was struggling. He had been the most powerful man in the world and had made decisions that affected millions of people. But nothing had prepared him for this.
“We love you, Mother,” Jerry repeated, “but we think you are chemically dependent, and the doctors want to talk to you.”
Bob Barrett would recall that she looked so small, “almost like a doll, lost in the cushions, confusion written all over her face.”
“Mrs. Ford, you don’t have to be alarmed,” Pursch said. “All these people care for you.”
Jerry turned to Mike and said, “Mike, you start.”
Mike had his notes in front of him, but he didn’t need to look down. “Mom,” he said, “being the oldest, I probably saw more clearly the strain on you, having been a wife in Washington with four children, and all the pressures and demands that created in your environment. But, Mom, now you’ve got to the point where your lifestyle is destructive. It’s hurting your relationship with Dad, with all of us, and with your friends. Those relationships are too valuable to lose.”
It was hard. It was so hard. “Mom,” he continued, “your life is too valuable to let go.”
He turned to his wife and, with a glance, passed the baton.
“Mother,” Gayle began, “you know we’ve been married for four years, and we want to start a family.” Her voice quivered as she looked at her mother-in-law, sunken forlornly on the sofa. “But we want our children to know their grandmother. Not just to know her, but to know her as a healthy, loving person . . .”
Betty’s eyes welled with tears. What was Gayle saying? That she wasn’t fit to be a grandmother?
Jack spoke next. “There were so many times, Mother, when we lived at Crown View Drive, when I was a teenager . . . we had the pool, but I didn’t like to bring friends home. I was embarrassed. If we’d gone out to the movies or something, I was always peeking around the corner into the family room to see what kind of shape you were in.”
Betty still had barely reacted. She didn’t know whether sh
e should feel hurt or mad as hell. How dare they? She had practically raised these children on her own. God knows Jerry was never around. She’d been the good wife—first, all those years when he was in Congress—and then when he’d suddenly become vice president, she’d stepped right into the limelight. She had never wanted to be first lady, but what choice did she have? And she’d made the most of it. Had they forgotten how popular she was during the 1976 campaign? All those buttons and signs that said “Betty Ford’s Husband for President” and even “Betty for President.”
Jerry could feel the tension and anger growing in his wife. As each person spoke, he would clutch her hand a little tighter, give it a squeeze, and over and over again, he kept repeating, “Betty, we love you.”
Steve spoke next. “Mom, do you remember that weekend I came home? Dad was gone, and I didn’t want you to be alone in that rented house. You’d only been in Palm Springs a short while, and I thought you must be lonely. So, I brought my girlfriend and I made dinner. I fixed vegetables, salad, the whole thing. And then when I told you it was ready, you said, ‘I really don’t feel like eating.’ ” Steve looked at her and winced. “That hurt me, Mom.”
He looked down and continued, “You know, I’d gone to the store, done the shopping, put the silverware on the proper sides of the plates, like you’d taught me, and you wouldn’t even come and sit down. You just went and got another drink.”
Betty was reeling. He’s got some nerve, she thought. I’m used to having one or two drinks before dinner. I don’t have a problem with alcohol. And yet she couldn’t quite recall the incident to which he was referring.
Finally, it was Susan’s turn. The twenty-year-old was shaking. She wasn’t sure she could say what she’d written down. Her mouth opened, and before she could get the words out, tears started streaming down her cheeks. She turned to Clara—sitting next to her—and crumpled.
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