ROCHESTER, Minn. – Milestone anniversaries can be useful things. Take this season's 150th anniversary of the cold January 1864 day when Dr. W.W. Mayo placed an ad in area newspapers announcing that his medical practice was open for business in downtown Rochester and the Mayo Clinic was born.
A burst of high-risk, high-opportunity change is hard upon the health care industry in general and Mayo Clinic in particular. That makes this a fine time for Mayo folk to reflect on how their mammoth enterprise became famous for the best in medical care, and how that story might guide what comes next.
They know it, too, judging from the "150 Years Serving Humanity" emblems and lovingly curated exhibits in evidence at the high-rising, fast-growing Mayo campus. History matters here, a visitor deduces.
Mayo CEO John Noseworthy amended that observation. Patients are what really matter at Mayo, Noseworthy said. That's the emphasis that the "Little Doctor" brought to Rochester from England and Indiana by way of St. Paul and Le Sueur, and that his surgically gifted sons "Dr. Will" and "Dr. Charlie" hammered as they led their practice through a period of rapid change in health care every bit as challenging as today.
"Mayo's success, over a long time, is rooted in the purpose of our work, and that's meeting the needs of our patients," Noseworthy said. "That's our secret — knowing that's what matters. Being deeply rooted in that primary value allows us to be successful. Once you put the patient in the center of any discussion, you can't make bad decisions."
It was striking to hear that credo voiced moments after I'd read an excerpt of a speech Dr. Will Mayo made at Rush Medical College in Chicago in 1910: "The best interest of the patient is the only interest to be considered." At Mayo Clinic, some things don't change.
William James Mayo, the elder of the two Mayo brothers, was making the case that day for sick people to be treated by teams of doctors functioning in coordination as a multiple-specialty group practice. Those physicians would be salaried, so that they would have no financial incentive to strive for volume at the expense of quality. Genuine teamwork, "uniting for the good of the patient," was the goal.
That was a novel concept in 1910, invented by a pair of brothers who excelled at surgery when it was cutting-edge stuff. (My editors allow me one bad pun per column.) In the 1890s, they had the advantages of state-of-the-art passenger rail transportation and a state-of-the-art hospital, built at the insistence of Mother Alfred Moes of the Sisters of St. Francis and staffed seven days a week by nuns who became care specialists in their own right.