1918

Radithor

The early years of radioactivity research were quite alarming. Many researchers (like the Curies) were injured by exposure to the new concentrated radioactive elements, but these substances were also tested on all sorts of skin diseases, cancers, and other conditions as potential medicines. Legitimate uses were found (such as treatment of some kinds of skin cancer), but there were plenty of other people with less scientific—and less altruistic—motivations. The number of radioactive “medicines” produced in the early twentieth century is probably beyond counting. The new phenomenon, it was thought, just had to have something to do with human health, and surely most people just weren’t getting enough radioactivity. Time to sell them some.

How about a radioactive water dispenser? Radioactive toothpaste? Radioactive skin cream? All of these and more were advertised. A famous example is Radithor elixir, and its label was (unfortunately) accurate—there was guaranteed radium in every bottle. Beginning in 1918, Radithor was sold as a general tonic and health enhancer, and a prominent businessman of the time, steel company owner Eben Byers of Pittsburgh, was glad to serve as its spokesman. He drank up to three bottles a day, and look how successful he was, with all that energy!

Unfortunately, radium is in the same column of the periodic table as calcium, and it also concentrates in the bones. The main isotope found in Radithor (radium-226) is an alpha-particle emitter, which means that its radiation could be shielded by a barrier as insubstantial as a sheet of paper—if it’s outside your body. Ingested, though, it has every chance to do its worst. Within two years, Byers came down with terrible bone cancer, but since he had consumed hundreds of bottles of Radithor, the wonder was that he lasted as long as he did. He’d been irradiated from within. His death in 1932 (and his burial in a lead-lined coffin) brought overdue scrutiny to the radioactive-cure industry. Soon, Radithor was among the products the FDA used to promote the passage of the 1938 Federal Food, Drug, and Cosmetic Act. There was a compelling case to be made.

Sadly, the label on this bottle of Radithor is completely accurate in every detail, which should make you want to back away from it quickly rather than drink it.

Lithograph of a song-sheet cover for “The Quack’s Song,” composed by F. C. Burnand and W. Meyer Lutz, c. 1900.