When I began writing my latest novel, THE ONES WE LEAVE
BEHIND, last year, I had no idea we’d be living in the middle of a pandemic by
the time it was released. It seemed strange since a portion of my novel takes
place during the tuberculosis epidemic. In order to write about it, I did a significant
amount of research, which thankfully I enjoy.
In one chapter of my book, the main character, Anna, goes with
her father to the Ah-Gwah-Ching Sanatorium in Walker, Minnesota to receive
treatment. Since Anna isn’t infected, she can’t live at the sanatorium and is taken
in by one of the doctors to work as a mother’s helper. I researched
Ah-Gwah-Ching extensively and came up with some interesting facts about the
sanatorium.
If you watch any of those ghost hunting shows, they’d have
you believe that tuberculosis facilities were full of scary procedures and horrendous
care. It was quite the opposite at Ah-Gwah-Ching. The setting was beautiful,
the staff worked hard to care for patients, and many, many patients survived to
live long full lives.
Originally built in 1907 to house up to sixty-five patients,
the Minnesota Sanatorium for Consumptives (its original name before it was
changed to Ah-Gwah-Ching in 1922) was founded. By 1927, it grew to 300
patients, and additional buildings had sprung up. Ah-Gwah-Ching – meaning “out
of doors” in Objibwa – was built to be self-sufficient in many ways. Located
two miles south of the town of Walker, it originally had its own train depot, farm
for fresh food, and a dairy herd for fresh milk and other products. The idea was
to give patients fresh food and fresh air in order to heal their diseased
lungs. There were several types of treatments, such as aspirating the fluid
from lungs, collapsing diseased lungs so they could heal, and placing patient
beds beside open windows, even in the winter, so they could breathe in the
fresh air while lying under warm blankets to keep their bodies warm. In the
summer, patients were sent outdoors to lie in the sun because it was thought
that the ultra-violet rays could also heal them. (When COVID-19 started this
past spring, there was talk about killing the virus with UV light. It wasn’t a
new concept – they’d used it for TB patients.)
The first few months that a patient was at the sanatorium, they
were restricted to complete bed rest. That meant never leaving their beds. If
they had to be moved, it was done by moving the bed or in a wheelchair. As you
can imagine, people grew bored lying in bed for weeks. Many used their time writing
letters to family and friends, reading, knitting, crocheting, or tatting. Many
of the men even learned how to crochet or knit in order to pass the time. On
site, there was a craft shop where patients could sell their fancywork and other
items they made to other patients. Some would sell items like gift wrap, bows,
and stationery that they’d purchased for resale from companies found at the
back of a magazine. A sound system with headphones for each patient was set up throughout
the compound so patients could listen to music, prayer services on Sunday, and
even sports.
The site consisted of several buildings for patients in
varying stages of illness. If you moved from one building to another, it was a
big deal. You knew you were healing. In 1934, the Chippewa Indian Sanatorium at
Onigum on Leech Lake burned down, and the native residents were transferred to their
own building at Ah-Gwah-Ching. A Penal Camp, connected to the St. Cloud
Reformatory, was also set up at Ah-Gwah-Ching in 1935, and the prisoners worked
the farm and dairy and other jobs around the campus. Unfortunately, because of
its remote location, it was easy for many prisoners to escape, and they had to eventually
end that program.
Because of the rural nature of the sanatorium, it was
difficult to recruit and retain nurses and aides as well as other workers. The
turnover was high. Many of the native nurses began working in the facility. Patients
rarely saw friends or family because of the distance between the sanatorium and
their homes. Many would go months, even years, without visitors. Because of
that, the patients grew close to one another, almost like their own little
family. If a resident died, they’d all mourn. If someone went home, they’d all
cheer.
In 1964, Ah-Gwah-Ching became a state nursing home for
patients with “challenging behaviors.” State offices were also located in the
facility. In fact, my mother-in-law worked in the offices at Aw-Gwah-Ching in
the late 1960s for a while. In the early 2000s, it was still being used as
state offices, and a woman I worked with in the non-profit sector had an office
there, too. I asked her once if the building was haunted. She told me that she’d
heard it was but hadn’t seen any ghosts. So much for the sad souls haunting the
sanatoriums.
Ah-Gwah-Ching closed, and all the buildings were demolished
in 2008. Much like Diane in my novel, I find that sad. It would have been nice
to have even one of the buildings left to remind us of the time when so many
lives passed through there in its 100 years of operation. For me, though, it’s
personal on a small level. Remember how my character, Anna, went to live with a
doctor to care for his children while her father received treatment? That
actually happened to my grandmother. Sometime around 1923, my twelve-year-old
grandmother accompanied her father to Ah-Gwah-Ching so he could be treated. Her
mother has already passed away, and she had nowhere else to go. A doctor kindly
took her in for nearly two years, and she helped his wife by babysitting their children.
Some of her fondest memories were of swimming in Leech Lake with the children.
While my novel is fiction, I strive to add as much truth as
possible because I feel it adds depth to the story. That is the joy of writing
historical fiction novels; delving into the past and hopefully preserving it,
even after it’s long gone.
My novel, The Ones We Leave Behind, is available for purchase
on Amazon in ebook, paperback, and audiobook.
https://amzn.to/3gxUa5c
