Father Otis W.
A priest in AA“It’s up to us to get her organized.”
He said it at the St. Agnes AA meeting. That same evening a “bucket brigade” formed, and AA members turned out to scrub the old wing’s walls and woodwork.
Darrah, chapter 5.
Akron and Cleveland · 1950–1953
She kept her name off the St. Thomas plaque. Two years later her order sent her to Cleveland, where AA plumbers, painters and carpenters built her a new ward at night, and a crowd of a thousand wouldn’t let her stay anonymous.
“This was no professional job. The folks who worked on this thing had their hearts in it.”
By 1950 Sister Ignatia was famous in AA, and wanted none of it. In December 1949, pressed by her superior, she had accepted the College of Steubenville’s first Poverello Medal on AA’s behalf, and the newspapers had started calling her the Angel of Alcoholics Anonymous. When Ohio members unveiled a plaque in the St. Thomas ward on April 8, 1950, she refused to have her name on it; The flower room has the inscription. Her example, Bill W. wrote later, was “the influence that persuaded us both never to accept public honors of any sort,” meaning himself and Dr. Bob.
After Dr. Bob died that November, Bill wrote, there was “great concern lest Sister might not be allowed to continue her work.” For a time, nothing changed. Then, on August 1, 1952, her orders came: “Charity Hospital on the seventh of August.” Darrah traces the move to a quarrel over admissions. The administration wanted the office modernized, and her twenty years of juggling beds for AA stood in the way; an earlier plan to move her had been dropped when the AA members protested. “You know, we’re just like the people in the Army; we go to where we’re sent,” she said. Her farewell outgrew the ward and moved to the cafeteria, and on the evening of August 6 cars jammed the old Akron viaduct leading to the hospital. “I called it an Irish Wake,” she said. Sister Mercede took over the ward.
At Charity there was nothing for her to run. Her orders told her only to call on the second-floor patients and help AA, and at sixty-three she wondered whether this was the first step toward retirement. The hospital had once had a small alcoholic ward, she wrote to Bill on October 6, but it had closed while a new wing went up. (Bill’s 1966 memorial says only that she was put in charge of Charity’s alcoholic ward.) An AA member, Eddie G., came by every day and watched her pace the corridor. “Eddie, I’ll never have another place,” she told him. Back in August, Akron members had gone to the bishop to ask for her back, and been sent on to his chancellor, who told them nothing could be done.
The day after her letter to Bill, October 7, 1952, the Feast of the Holy Rosary, she was called to the office of Charity’s administrator, Sister Francetta, and found her bent over blueprints for an alcoholic ward with the nursing director and an architect. Were the patients violent? Would they be drunk? “Will they need to be put in cages?” the architect asked. She offered to draw what she wanted, and brought her sketch the next day. “I am not personally interested,” Sister Francetta told her. “But I am also not opposed.” Darrah thinks the decision was more practical than kind: Charity had empty beds and too few nurses, and AA patients needed little nursing. When a board member scrawled on the plan that a table would do instead of a coffee bar, she answered, “Let’s forget about it if you’re not going to give us the proper setup.” The coffee bar stayed in. She named the ward Rosary Hall, for the feast.
Word went round, and the AAs of Cleveland and Akron took over the job; Who built it tells how. On Sunday, December 7, moments before the dedication, the workers hung a sign over the doors: “Take Hope All Ye Who Leave Here.” The ward opened to the public the next day, and by the time its first patient, Don L., came in on December 15, it had sixteen beds, two of them for women. A year later, on December 13, 1953, a thousand people filled a small auditorium and its balcony for the first anniversary, Bill W. among them. The program said the sisters and the AA members who had helped “decline all individual credit.” It didn’t work. “Sister Ignatia’s attempted anonymity was busted wide open,” Bill wrote. She was “just about as anonymous in that part of our AA world as baseball’s Cleveland Indians.”
It’s October 1952, at St. Vincent Charity Hospital in Cleveland. Sister Ignatia has been sent here from Akron, with nothing to run. Then the hospital gives her an old wing for an alcoholic ward.
The word goes round the AA meetings. A priest in AA tells them it’s up to them now to get her organized. That same night, a bucket brigade forms to scrub the walls.
A plumber who turns out to be in AA talks his suppliers into giving the tubs and sinks, and his friends put them in after dark. The painters’ union sends two men with their own paint. Somebody finds a foreman. And Sister Ignatia keeps the coffee coming, all night, every night.
Two months later, the ward is finished. A plumbing inspector looks it over and says it’s no professional job: whoever did it put their whole heart into it.
The crew
Between October and December 1952, AA members from Cleveland and Akron rebuilt an old wing of St. Vincent Charity Hospital for her, mostly at night and mostly for nothing. A few of them have names.
From Mary C. Darrah’s biography (1992), which draws on Father Thomas C.’s 1966 research notes, and on the Cleveland Plain Dealer of December 5, 1952, which Darrah quotes. AA members are named as Darrah names them. Quotations are short excerpts.
“It’s up to us to get her organized.”
He said it at the St. Agnes AA meeting. That same evening a “bucket brigade” formed, and AA members turned out to scrub the old wing’s walls and woodwork.
Darrah, chapter 5.
“Are you the same sister who worked with Dr. Bob?”
A plumbing company sent him to fit some old shower units a hospital had donated. He was in AA. His employer let him give his own time, supplier friends gave the tubs, showers, sinks and fittings, and AA friends put them in after hours, late into the night.
Darrah, chapter 5.
The architect offered to supply paint, but the AAs were ahead of him: the painters’ union, through one of its agents, sent two professionals with their own. The whole ward was repainted in two weeks.
Darrah, chapter 5.
“Oh, Charlie, if I ever needed a construction engineer, I need one now.”
She said it on the phone to Charlie, a Pittsburgh man she had once treated, who called from the Cleveland airport between flights. One call from Charlie to Tommy O.M., a friend of his in Cleveland, and the job had a manager to organize the trades.
Darrah, chapter 5.
Businessmen gave fixtures, furniture and paint, the paper reported, and unions let members put in their off hours; one union paid two carpenters itself. A lawyer and his wife saw to the little chapel, and the workers included Protestants, Catholics and Jews.
The Cleveland Plain Dealer, December 5, 1952, quoted in Darrah, chapter 5.
“It’s Our Lady and the AAs who are doing it.”
She kept the night crews fed and in coffee, and spent the money people gave on everything from building supplies to pajamas and medicine.
The Plain Dealer (the quotation) and Darrah, chapter 5.
More than $60,000
Bill W. put the cost at “More than $60,000 in funds and night work,” and no source here gives a better figure; Darrah quotes his and gives none of her own. What Bill remembered best was the plumbing inspector, whose words he turned around at the end of his article: “This is no professional job. It comes from the heart.”
For a closer look
How many came through the first year, the alcoholic wards Cleveland had before hers, and three letters over a door.
In his article on the anniversary, Bill W. wrote that a thousand alcoholics had come through Rosary Hall in the single year since she had come to Charity, and that Sister Ignatia, who kept up with many of them, believed about seven hundred were sober. Darrah prints Sister Ignatia’s own count, month by month, from a little black notebook: 37 in December 1952, 70 in January, up to 98 in May, 1,018 by the end of 1953. Through November it came to 943, so Bill’s thousand was a fair round number. Only Bill gives the seven hundred.
The evening itself was not smooth behind the scenes, Darrah writes. Some Cleveland old-timers wanted to run the program, and Sister Ignatia let newly sober men from Rosary Hall help plan it instead. The Grapevine noted that Bill had made a special trip, and that this didn’t mean he was traveling and speaking again in general.
Charity had taken alcoholics before she came, and the accounts disagree about how. Bill W. wrote in 1954 that the hospital had taken alcoholics since 1940 and set aside a ward for them, run by Sister Victorine Keller and the chaplain, Father James Nagle. Darrah tells a slower story. Charity’s superior refused at first: “No beds for alcoholics. Hospital beds are for sick people!” For about two years doctors slipped AA patients onto Sister Victorine’s ward under diagnoses like “evaluation, observation, and avitaminosis.” A real alcoholic ward, Room 231, opened with four beds on April 20, 1945, and closed about a year later, when Sister Victorine was transferred and the hospital began building.
Bill also wrote that St. John’s Hospital in Cleveland had for a time kept a ward of just two beds, with “Sister Merced” in charge, the same Sister Mercede who later took over at St. Thomas. Darrah makes it four beds, from 1946 to 1950. She calls his account of the early Cleveland and Akron hospitals “somewhat inaccurate.”
Rosary Hall was named for the day the ward was granted, the Feast of the Holy Rosary. Its full name was Rosary Hall Solarium, and the initials R. H. S. were carved over the door. Dr. Bob and the Good Oldtimers says they “just happened” to be Dr. Bob’s own initials, and The flower room tells it that way. In 1960 she admitted the truth in a speech: she had wanted the ward to honor Dr. Bob’s memory, and “All I need is an ‘S,’ and I’ll have Doctor’s initials.”
The sign over the entrance, “Take Hope All Ye Who Leave Here,” turns around the line Dante put over the gate of hell, which tells those who enter to abandon all hope. After her time, Rosary Hall kept its anniversary on October 7, the day it was granted, rather than in December.