Wesley Lynch

August 21, 1883. Just after six in the evening, the sky over Rochester, Minnesota turns the color of a bruise. Twenty minutes later, a third of the town is gone. Thirty seven people are dead. More than two hundred are bleeding in the streets. Rochester had no hospital. Not one. So a convent school on the edge of town emptied out. The nuns walked into the wreckage in full habits, and a woman named Mother Alfred Moes, an immigrant from Luxembourg who had come to America with almost nothing, sent word to the only doctor in town who could handle that many wounded. His name was William Worrall Mayo. He was 64, an English country doctor, a hard skeptic on the subject of religion. The sisters took over Rommel's dance hall and turned it into a hospital overnight. None of them had ever been trained in nursing. They learned it standing up, with Mayo giving orders and the injured laid out on the floorboards. When the last patient was gone, Mother Alfred went to see him. She told him Rochester needed a real hospital. A permanent one. She said she had seen it, a great hospital rising out of the cornfields on the west edge of town, and that she wanted him to run it. Mayo told her the truth. A building like that would cost $40,000. Well over a million in today's money. He said no congregation of school teaching nuns could possibly raise it. She did not argue with him. She simply told him that if he would take charge of the hospital, the sisters would take charge of paying for it. Then she went out and did it. For six years, her sisters taught school and handed over their wages. Every dollar. She bought nine acres of farmland. She hired the builders. She oversaw the plans herself, and when the money ran short, she found more. Saint Marys Hospital opened on September 30, 1889. Twenty seven beds. Thirteen sisters, none of them nurses by training. Dr. Mayo, now 70, walked in as chief of staff with his two sons, Will and Charlie, beside him. Those two boys built their surgical practice inside her building. Patients started arriving from Chicago, then from every state, then from overseas. The brothers formalized the partnership in 1919 and gave it their family name. Mayo Clinic. Today it treats more than a million patients a year and is ranked the best hospital in the United States. Mother Alfred Moes died on December 18, 1899, ten years after the doors opened. She never saw what it became. The Mayo brothers always said it plainly. Their father did not want the hospital. The nun did. She built it, and then she handed them the keys. Millions of Americans have made the drive to Rochester with someone they love in the passenger seat. Almost none of them know that the whole thing started with a 54-year-old woman standing in tornado wreckage, refusing to accept a no. h/t: Minnesota | FB