When Paul Alexander, the famous "Polio Paul," passed away in early 2024, the world’s attention briefly flickered toward a mechanical relic of the past. But while many thought that era had officially ended, one person remained. Martha Lillard is likely the last human being on Earth who still relies on an iron lung to survive.
She isn't a museum exhibit. She is a woman living in Oklahoma, surrounded by her beagles, painting, and watching old Hollywood movies. Honestly, most people assume these machines—massive, yellow, metal cylinders that look like something out of a 1950s sci-fi flick—are extinct. They aren't. For Martha, the iron lung is "a very dear friend."
The Day Everything Changed
Life for Martha Ann Lillard started normally enough in Shawnee, Oklahoma. She was a little girl who wanted to be a ballerina. She’d walk on her tiptoes, obsessed with dolls in tutus.
Then came June 8, 1953.
It was her fifth birthday. Her family celebrated at Joyland, an amusement park. Barely nine days later, the "beast" of the 20th century caught up to her. She woke up with a sore throat. Her neck ached. It wasn't a cold. It was poliomyelitis.
Polio is a terrifyingly efficient virus. It attacks the nervous system. In Martha’s case, it paralyzed her breathing muscles. Within days, she was rushed to a hospital and placed inside a negative pressure ventilator.
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You’ve probably seen the photos of hospital wards filled with these machines. Rows of metal tubes with only human heads sticking out. Martha remembers the sound. Since patients couldn't breathe, they couldn't speak. The only way to get a nurse's attention was to click their tongues. She described it as sounding like a "big room full of chickens."
How Martha Lillard's Iron Lung Actually Works
So, why an iron lung? Why not a modern ventilator?
To understand that, you have to understand the difference between pushing and pulling. Most modern ventilators are "positive pressure." They shove air into your lungs through a tube in your throat or a mask. It’s invasive.
The Martha Lillard iron lung is "negative pressure." Basically, it’s a vacuum.
- Her body is sealed inside the airtight tank.
- A motorized leather bellows at the end pulls air out of the tank.
- This creates a vacuum that forces her chest to expand, sucking air into her lungs naturally through her nose and mouth.
- When the bellows pushes air back into the tank, her chest collapses, and she exhales.
It mimics the actual way a human diaphragm works. Martha has tried modern machines. She hated them. She says they don't feel "natural" and aren't as efficient for her specific type of paralysis. For her, the iron lung is the only thing that leaves her feeling truly rested.
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The Terrifying Reality of "Mechanical Dependence"
Living in a 700-pound machine isn't exactly a walk in the park. It’s a constant balancing act.
A few years back, an ice storm hit Oklahoma. The power went out. Martha’s emergency generator—the thing that keeps her lungs moving—failed to kick on.
Imagine being trapped in a metal tube, unable to breathe on your own, in the dark, in the freezing cold. She described it as "being buried alive." She tried to call 911, but the cell towers were down. She literally had to tell herself, "I'm not going to die," while struggling for every gasp of air. Eventually, she got a signal, and emergency responders arrived. They didn't even know what an iron lung was.
Maintenance is another nightmare. These machines haven't been manufactured in decades. Philips Respironics, the company that used to service them, eventually stopped.
Martha has had to become a bit of an engineer and a scavenger. She once bought a second machine from a man in Utah just for the parts. Her biggest fear right now? The collars. The rubber seals around the neck have to be airtight. They dry out. They crack. They leak. If she can't find someone to manufacture those specific collars, she can't breathe.
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A Life Lived in the Shadows of a Pandemic
It’s a bit ironic, really. Martha has spent her life avoiding one virus, only to see the world shut down for another. During the COVID-19 pandemic, she had to be extra careful. While some people complained about masks, Martha was literally encapsulated in a machine that was the only thing keeping her lungs from collapsing.
She’s also a vocal advocate for vaccines.
When she hears about anti-vax movements, it breaks her heart. She knows exactly what the alternative looks like. She spent her childhood homeschooled, unable to go camping with her siblings, unable to ever have children of her own because of the physical strain. She doesn't want anyone else to live a life "balanced" on the edge of a mechanical bellows.
Why This Matters in 2026
Martha is now in her late 70s. With Paul Alexander gone, she stands as a living bridge to a time before the Salk vaccine. She is a reminder of human resilience, sure, but also of how fragile our medical infrastructure can be when "obsolete" technology is still a lifeline for the few.
She doesn't want pity. She paints. She finds joy in the small stuff—like watching ants build little villages. She says there’s "much more to see if you really look for it."
Actionable Insights for Supporting Polio Survivors & History:
- Preserve the Tech: If you happen to know of an old iron lung in a basement or a museum that’s being decommissioned, contact post-polio organizations. Parts are literally life and death for people like Martha.
- Vaccination Awareness: The reason we don't see wards of iron lungs anymore is the vaccine. Supporting global polio eradication efforts (like those by Rotary International) ensures this machine remains a relic of history rather than a future necessity.
- Support Post-Polio Research: Many survivors deal with "Post-Polio Syndrome" decades later. Organizations like Post-Polio Health International (PHI) provide resources for survivors navigating aging with the disease.
Martha Lillard isn't just a survivor; she's a master of adaptation. She’s turned a metal tank into a "dear friend" and a home. While the world moves toward smaller, faster, and digital, she remains, breathing rhythmically to the mechanical thrum of a machine that refuses to quit—just like her.