Who Gets Credit for Changing the World? Inside the Attempts to Rewrite Insulin History
Full of jealousy, fights and bitter grudges, the story of U of T’s most famous medical discovery is the soap opera you’ve never heard of.
It was the discovery of a lifetime, the sort of breakthrough every medical student and scientist that came before and after has dreamed of making. By 1922, diabetes victims found hope bottled up in tiny vials like a magic potion or fabled elixir of life. Rather than hidden in a mystical forest and whispered about in fantastic legends, this wonder drug was in hospitals and labs, with solid data to show it worked. It was better than fantasy—it was real.
Insulin produced by U of T’s Connaught Laboratories in 1924 // Photo via the University of Toronto
Whether you first heard it in a biology class or during a campus tour, you’re probably familiar with the story of insulin and its discovery at the University of Toronto (U of T). As it is usually told, the tale paints an inspirational picture of collaborative spirit and scientific excellence, an uplifting medical fairytale. A young surgeon named Frederick Banting approaches J. J. R. Macleod, a well-regarded professor of physiology, with a novel idea to solve a problem plaguing the medical community: how could secretions from the pancreas be isolated to help control blood sugar in diabetic patients? Identifying the sure sign of genius, Macleod welcomes Banting into his lab and introduces him to two talented biochemical researchers, Charles Best and James Collip. Together, they formed the dream team that would eventually create the first purified extract of insulin and change the lives of people suffering from diabetes everywhere.
Charles Best and Frederick Banting, half of the insulin team, with one of the dogs they used for their experiments on the roof of U of T’s Medical Building in 1921 // Photo via the University of Toronto
This story is not false, but it isn’t the whole truth, either. As anyone who has spent enough time in a lab knows, the path to a breakthrough is often paved with frustration and strained relationships as experiments fail and deadlines approach. Just over 100 years ago, the revolutionary work on insulin was no different. As modern research into the history of the discovery reveals, the medical fairytale was more of a soap opera, complete with resentments, rivalries and all-round drama.
When he first met J. J. R. Macleod at U of T in November 1921, Frederick Banting seemed an unlikely candidate for making a revolutionary scientific discovery. In his 1993 biography, Michael Bliss writes about Banting’s days as a medical student at U of T, where his grades were mediocre and his education was truncated by the outbreak of World War One. Despite opening an office in London, Ontario after the war, he received few patients and struggled to pay off his debt. It was only during a part-time job at Western University that Banting, in preparation for a talk he was to give in a physiology class, read an article by Moses Barron on the role of the pancreas in the treatment of diabetes. Lying awake that night, Banting had an idea that he jotted down in a notebook. He did not have a distinguished medical career, with the only significant knowledge of diabetes being the few textbooks he’d read, or even a particular interest in the disease. What he did have, as he stood in Macleod’s office, was a 25-word hypothesis written at 2 a.m. in which Banting had misspelled “diabetes.”
Banting’s late-night idea for the treatment of “diabetus” as recorded in his notebook // Photo via the University of Toronto
It’s understandable that Macleod was skeptical. Banting’s request to meet with him was the 1920s equivalent of cold-emailing a professor asking about a research opportunity for which you are certainly not the most qualified. Nevertheless, Macleod agreed to give Banting the lab space for his experiments while Macleod visited Scotland for the summer. To assist with the work, Macleod recruited two undergraduates, Charles Best and Edward Noble, who had been employed as research assistants under him.
Since Banting’s work only required one assistant, Best and Noble decided to split the summer research between themselves. Even this early in the story, there are discrepancies between different versions. Most accounts, including those of Banting and Noble, agree that Best and Noble determined who would help Banting for the first half of the summer using a coin toss, which Best won. When the second half rolled around, and it was time to switch, Best and Banting were working so well together that everyone mutually agreed to let Best continue. However, Best himself denied the coin toss ever happened, perhaps to avoid framing his involvement in the discovery as sheer luck.
The truth of insulin’s history only gets fuzzier. While Banting and Best clashed at first, Banting gave him “a severe talking to,” after which they collaborated well. By the end of the year, Macleod suggested that the two men present their findings so far at a conference of the American Physiological Society. During his talk, however, Banting was seized by stage fright. “I could not remember nor could I think,” he later wrote. “I was overawed.” Macleod came to his rescue and completed the presentation, but Banting saw this as an attempt to steal credit for the research. Bad blood was brewing between the two men and it would last a while.
In January 1922, the first patient to receive Banting and Best’s extract experienced a toxic reaction and only short-term lowering of blood sugar, which the scientists figured was due to impurities in the drug. Macleod brought in another team member to address this problem, changing the dynamic of the lab yet again.
James Collip as a graduate student at U of T in 1914 // Photo via the University of Toronto
James Collip was something of a prodigy. Having graduated from U of T’s Trinity College at 19 years old and received a Ph.D. in biochemistry at 23, he held teaching positions at both the University of Alberta and later at the University of Toronto. He developed a purified extract that yielded successful results just two weeks after the first failure. His contribution was invaluable, but he frequently came into conflict with Banting, who felt Collip and Macleod were pushing himself and Best out of the insulin picture. There may also have been a physical altercation between Collip and Banting, though this is where things get hazy again. Bliss provides the only two accounts of this confrontation in his book and cautions that neither is completely reliable. Banting claims that when Collip refused to share his purification method with the others, Banting grabbed him by the collar and said Collip was lucky to be smaller than him because otherwise, Banting would “knock hell out of him.” Best’s account differs slightly: Collip threatened to patent the purification technique and leave the team, and Best had to restrain Banting “with all the force at my command” to prevent him from beating Collip.
Bliss speculates on the actual events of this confrontation, if it occurred at all. The legend is perhaps more fascinating than the reality and each member of the insulin team seems to have their own version of the truth. After the discovery of purified insulin and successful clinical trials in 1922, newspapers began to run stories on the discovery, and one of these quoted a British physiologist—and personal friend of Macleod’s—who suggested Macleod was not receiving due credit for his involvement and that Banting was merely a collaborator who assisted in the investigation. While Macleod decided to ignore the statement to avoid getting caught up in controversy, Banting became more and more convinced Macleod was scheming to steal the glory of their breakthrough. Not one to be outdone, Banting’s official account of the discovery portrayed it as a Banting-and-Best enterprise, minimizing contributions from the others and even suggesting Macleod was discouraging to the young researchers. More troublingly, of the four major players in our story, only Collip was not asked to contribute his own account. History was being written, but not all perspectives seemed to be considered equal.
J. J. R. Macleod in 1928 // Photo via University of Toronto
The controversy over credit reached a head when, in 1923, Banting and Macleod were selected to receive the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine. Banting was not pleased about sharing the award and almost refused to accept it altogether. Eventually, he decided to accept the award but split the prize money with Best. On hearing about this, Macleod wrote to Collip and asked if he would share half of Macleod’s prize, and Collip accepted. Even in what seems like the perfect ending to the fairytale, the alliances are obvious, and the happily-ever-after seems calculated.
Newspaper clippings about the sharing of the Nobel Prize money among the four scientists // Photos via the University of Toronto
Some versions of the story end here, after the big prize and the decision to share credit for the discovery between the four scientists. The legacy of their game-changing discovery, however, followed the men throughout their lives and not always in a good way. Both Best and Collip felt overlooked, and Best decided to take matters into his own hands.
In the years after their discovery, Banting grew increasingly weary of Best’s constant campaigning to receive some grandiose recognition for his role in their work. For instance, after U of T’s Banting Institute opened in 1930, Best became obsessed with having a building or institute named after himself, a fact that was well-known to Banting as the university’s Head of the Department of Medical Research. Banting was not one to crush his friends’ reputations—he advocated tirelessly for Collip, now his close friend, to receive an honorary degree from the university. Best’s oversized ambition and resentment at not receiving the 1923 Nobel Prize grated on Banting. Before leaving on a hazardous wartime trip to the UK to test aviator flight suits in 1941, Banting said that if he were not to return and “they ever give that chair to that son of a bitch, Best, I’ll roll over in my grave.”
After Banting’s plane crashed over Newfoundland, that is exactly what happened. Banting’s friends at the university were so outraged that Best was given his former position that one of them immediately resigned. In his new role, Best pushed the narrative that he and Banting were the main medical heroes behind insulin, while Collip’s role was severely downplayed. Collip, who spent much of his post-insulin life quietly pursuing research in various universities and wartime medical research committees, was famously tight-lipped about these efforts to minimize his contribution.
Best took his mission one step further when it became clear that the story of insulin had silver screen potential. A writer from the National Film Board of Canada approached Best for his insight on the discovery process, and Best offered several suggestions on the script as it was written, frequently bending the truth to fit his own purposes. However, these attempts backfired when the writer got access to Banting’s journals. The feature film project eventually stagnated due to the conflicting versions of the story and the potential issues that could arise from publicizing these when both Collip and Best were still alive. The project was scaled back and released as a short film, The Quest (1958), which was panned by the scientific community for its glorification of Banting and Best.
Dennis Stanway and Leo Ciceri as Best and Banting in The Quest (1958) // Photo via the National Film Board of Canada
Even when he recruited a close writer friend to pen his biography, Best did not stop pushing his agenda. He was hawkish in his monitoring of the work and made several alterations to the writing in order to exaggerate his role and dismiss that of others. After a chapter was included in a collaborative work by various authors and heavily criticized, the biography was never finished.
Best’s colleagues in the medical community deplored his self-centred mission to falsify the story of one of the greatest collaborative medical research efforts of all time. After his death in 1978, the release of several unpublished documents allowed historians such as Bliss to piece together a more balanced story of the discovery.
Letters from children treated with insulin thanking Banting and his team // Photos via the University of Toronto
The human ego can be an ugly thing. When threatened, it kicks in to protect itself even at the cost of one’s morals and the best interests of everyone involved. In the end, insulin could not have saved millions of lives around the world if not for the contributions of all the scientists attached to the project. In many ways, the immense effort that went into their research makes it an act of public service. Only fitting that the story of the discovery should honour its legacy: one of selflessness, generosity and collaboration.
