By Joe Fitzgerald
The Boston Herald
Copyright 2006 Boston Herald Inc.
John Dorsey’s wake will be packed with living eulogies this afternoon as those whose lives he rescued, including many Boston firefighters, gather to mourn his passing.
For 25 years, including the past 10 with the Boston Fire Department’s employee assistance program, Dorsey’s own life was devoted to helping alcoholics find and maintain sobriety, a calling for which he was exceptionally gifted.
“Johnny was so disarming, so nonthreatening,” explained Lt. Willie Ostiguy, the program’s director. “Yet he was like a dog on a bone once he got involved in someone’s life, no matter how many times that individual relapsed. He’d say, `Our role is to dust you off, pick you up and get you onto your feet again, not to judge you. You’ve got enough people in your life judging you.’ ”
Firefighters have long understood that their profession is no more immune to the ravages of alcoholism than it is to any other disease.
“We used to have what was called the silent committee,” Ostiguy, 58, recalled. “It was guys in recovery helping guys who still had problems. But then, like the rest of society, we found the problem was so rampant that we started this program 22 years ago. Johnny had been running a similar one at old City Hospital, and when they closed those doors it gave us the opportunity to bring him in with us.”
Dorsey, who would have turned 63 yesterday, was about to go bowling with his wife, Mary Ann, when he was stricken Wednesday morning.
“We were laughing, like always,” Mary Ann said. “Then I went upstairs to get ready and when I came down he was on the floor.”
As word spread, his friends began descending on Carney Hospital, only to discover he was gone.
“I stood there crying,” Joe C. confided. “I came out of Andrew Square and ended up a bum, the kind everyone steps away from. I was living on the streets, doing whatever I had to do to survive, when someone introduced me to John.
“He drove me to a shelter every night at 6, then returned at 6 every morning with coffee, donuts and a pack of Marlboros. I could cry in front of him, or talk about how I wanted to be back with my wife and kids. And he’d say, `Joe, it happen; just don’t drink today.’ I now have a life again.”
Joe O. remembers Dorsey’s compassion.
“He had a big, caring heart for the sick and suffering,” he said. “He’d be the first to reach out his hand, offering the right word at the right time, and would really frown on anyone looking down on someone who was hurting. He’d say, `If you can’t help ‘em, leave ‘em alone.’
“We’re a big family, and when one member hurts, the whole unit hurts. Johnny’s life was all about stopping the hurting. His favorite saying was, `Meeting makers make it!’ ”
Dorsey’s mourners include a 22-year-old Dorchester woman, now sober almost five months.
“I knew he had helped a friend of mine,” she said, “so I went up to him at a meeting and I’ve been under his wing ever since. Just two weeks ago he took me out for ice cream, telling me again that I can have a fabulous life if I’ll just be willing to do what millions before me have done.”
Mary Ann was asked if she ever resented the intrusions her husband’s vocation visited upon their home.
“In the beginning, I wanted him all to myself,” she admitted. “But as I began to realize how many people John was helping, that made it OK with me. There is no better way to live a life.”
Indeed. And there is no better way to remember one.