The Discovery That Saved Millions
How two unlikely researchers and one young patient changed the course of medicine forever.
In the early 1920s, the world was just beginning to recover from the Great War. Cities were rebuilding, families were healing, and science was racing to catch up with the human cost of tragedy. But amid all that recovery, there was one battlefield that medicine still hadn’t conquered—a war being quietly fought inside hospital wards, homes, and hearts.
That battlefield was diabetes.
At the time, a diagnosis of diabetes was nearly always fatal. There were no insulin pens, no glucose meters, no medications to keep it under control. The best doctors could do was prescribe a “starvation diet”—tiny rations of food that could slow the disease’s progression by a few months. Children wasted away. Adults withered in their prime. And hospitals became silent witnesses to families saying slow, painful goodbyes.
One physician in Toronto, however, refused to accept that ending. His name was Frederick Banting, a 30-year-old doctor who had just returned from serving in World War I. The horrors he had seen there—the helplessness, the loss—stayed with him. He was determined to make a difference, to save the kinds of lives he couldn’t save on the battlefield.
And one autumn night in 1920, as he prepared a lecture on the pancreas, he came across an obscure journal article that would change everything. It described how the pancreas produced something essential for controlling blood sugar—but no one had ever successfully isolated it. Banting couldn’t sleep that night. By morning, he had written in his notebook a single line that would alter medical history:
“Diabetes — ligate pancreatic ducts — isolate internal secretion to relieve glycosuria.”
It wasn’t poetry. But it was destiny.
An Unlikely Partnership
Banting wasn’t a renowned scientist. He didn’t have a big lab, or even steady funding. But what he did have was conviction. He took his idea to the University of Toronto and managed to convince Professor J.J.R. Macleod to let him use a small lab over the summer. Macleod, skeptical but curious, paired him with a medical student named Charles Best to assist.
Best was quiet and methodical—the perfect balance to Banting’s restless drive. Together, they began the long process of studying pancreatic extracts, working with little money and even less sleep. They failed often. Their results were inconsistent. But every failure revealed something new. They refined, adjusted, and tried again.
Their work was grueling, and progress was slow. But by mid-1921, they began to see glimmers of hope. Something in their extract appeared to control blood sugar levels. With help from biochemist James Collip, they purified it further—turning their rough experiments into a stable, usable solution.
And now, all they needed was a chance to prove it could save a life.
A Family’s Last Hope
In January 1922, in Toronto General Hospital, a 14-year-old boy named Leonard Thompson was running out of time. He had been diagnosed with diabetes two years earlier, and by now, his body was failing. His weight had dropped to just 65 pounds. His skin was dry and cracked. His breathing shallow. His parents had been told the same words countless other families had heard: “There is nothing more we can do.”
But there was something new—an experimental treatment that had never before been tried on a human. Leonard’s father gave permission. It was their last hope.
The first injection didn’t work as planned. Leonard’s condition showed no improvement. The solution, they realized, was still impure. So the researchers went back to the lab, refining, filtering, and perfecting. Two weeks later, they tried again.
This time, the results were extraordinary. Leonard’s blood sugar levels dropped to near normal. His thirst subsided. His energy returned. Within days, he was sitting up, smiling, and eating normally.
Doctors and nurses couldn’t believe what they were seeing. A boy who had been moments from death was recovering before their eyes. The news spread through the hospital like wildfire. Hope—real, tangible hope—had arrived.
Leonard’s recovery marked the first successful use of insulin in a human being. He would live another 13 years—long enough to see the treatment that saved him spread across the world.
A Breakthrough Shared with the World
The discovery was nothing short of revolutionary. Within months, other patients began receiving the purified extract. Children who had been fading away were suddenly gaining strength. Parents who had prepared for funerals were instead planning birthdays.
By 1923, insulin was being mass-produced and distributed globally. Pharmaceutical companies partnered with the University of Toronto to ensure its accessibility, and the disease that had been a death sentence became manageable for the first time.
And when the question of profit arose, Banting and Best made a decision that defined not only their character, but their legacy. They sold the patent for insulin to the university for just one dollar.
“One dollar,” Banting said, “because insulin does not belong to me—it belongs to the world.”
They would later share the 1923 Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine. But even that came with its own drama. Banting was furious that his student partner, Charles Best, wasn’t included. In protest, he gave Best half of his prize money—a gesture that spoke to their shared mission from the very beginning.
They hadn’t set out to make history. They had set out to make a difference.
Legacy of a Lifesaving Discovery
A century later, more than 400 million people around the world live with diabetes. Many of them lead full, active lives—thanks to a treatment born out of compassion, persistence, and an unwavering belief that no one should be written off as hopeless.
The story of insulin is more than a medical milestone—it’s a human one. It’s a story of faith in the unseen, of courage in the face of failure, and of two men who changed the world not by accident, but by heart.
When Frederick Banting and Charles Best began their work, they had no idea their research would ripple through generations. But that’s the beauty of a twist of fate—it often begins quietly, in the moments no one is watching.
Because sometimes, one sleepless night… one scribbled note… one experiment born from compassion… can save millions of lives.
Sources
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