American History Tellers - Conquering Polio | The March of Dimes | 1

Episode Date: January 7, 2026

In the summer of 1921, 39-year-old Franklin Delano Roosevelt was on vacation with his family when he developed a fever, muscle aches, and chills. Pain spread to his legs, and soon, he was paralyzed from the waist down. Doctors diagnosed him with polio, which was fast becoming America’s most dreaded infectious disease.Every summer, polio struck without warning, causing swimming pools and movie theaters to close and panicked parents to keep their children indoors. Polio killed thousands of Americans each year and paralyzed many more. But scientists had no idea how to stop it.Roosevelt and his friend and colleague Basil O’Connor resolved to change that, launching the March of Dimes, a revolutionary fundraising campaign that galvanized millions of Americans to donate their time and money to the fight against polio.Be the first to know about Wondery’s newest podcasts, curated recommendations, and more! Sign up now at https://wondery.fm/wonderynewsletteListen to American History Tellers on the Wondery App or wherever you get your podcasts. Experience all episodes ad-free and be the first to binge the newest season. Unlock exclusive early access by joining Wondery+ in the Wondery App, Apple Podcasts or Spotify. Start your free trial today by visiting wondery.com/links/american-history-tellers/ now.See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

As we explore the triumphs and tragedies that shaped America, we're always striving to paint a vivid, nuanced picture of the past, and with Wondry Plus, you can experience that vision in its purest form. Enjoy ad-free episodes, early access to new seasons, and exclusive bonus content that illuminates the human stories behind the history. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts and see American History through a whole new lens. Imagine it's July 1942 in San Antonio, Texas. The glare of the morning sun hits your face as you push open your front door, your baby daughter, balanced against your hip.

Last night, your 5-year-old son was admitted to the hospital with polio, and you're rushing out to visit him. You're halfway down the porch steps when a man steps onto your front lawn with a stack have signs under his arm. Hey, hey, ma'am, I need you to go back inside. Your house is being placed under quarantine by orders of the San Antonio Department of Health. He holds up one of the signs. Big black letters spell out the words, quarantine, keep out of this house. Your stomach drops. But I have to go to the hospital to check on my son. I'm sorry, ma'am, the order came through this morning. No, no, listen to me. He fell down yesterday and he couldn't get up. His legs just stopped working. He's in

terrible pain. I have to see how he is. Ma'am, you can't go to the hospital. The polio ward is two-fold. They've stopped admitting visitors. I was there just last night. I only left because the doctors made me go home. I've been calling all morning for an update, but I can't get through. I have to go to the hospital. Look, ma'am, I'm sure the doctors are doing the very best for your boy, but you have to stay home. Oh, please, my son's only five. He needs his mother. You take a step forward to plead with the health officer, but he flinches and backs away so you don't get too close. Look, I know how hard this is, but you and your baby, you need to stay put,

and your son is likely infectious, so you'll need to burn his things, his toys, his books, anything he's touched. Burn them? Yeah, to stop the spread. You shake your head in disbelief and tighten your grip on your daughter. Do you have children, sir? I do, three boys. And you've got to understand why I need to go. I understand that I've got the health of my own boys to think of. And the rest of the city's children, too. Now look, if you don't go back inside, right this moment, I'm going to have to call a sheriff. You reluctantly turn and carry your daughter back inside the house. You close the front door and slump down to the floor. All you can do is picture your son in that hospital bed, alone and scared with a pain you can't fix.

From Wondery, I'm Lindsay Graham, and this is American History Tellers, Our History, Your Story. On our show, we'll take you to the events, the times and the people that shaped America and Americans. Our values, our struggles, and our dreams. We'll put you in the shoes of everyday people as history was being made, and we'll show you how the events of the times affected them, their families, and affects you now. In the first half of the 20th century, polio was America's most dreaded infectious disease. Every summer, it struck without warning, killing thousands of Americans, many of them children, and paralyzing many more.

Cities enforced strict quarantines, swimming pools, and movie schools, theaters closed their doors, panicked parents kept their children inside, and newspapers published running tallies of the victims. The sight of young children in wheelchairs, leg braces, and crutches became a constant reminder of polio's devastating toll. It was cruel and unpredictable, and with no means of prevention or cure, it seemed unstoppable. But change would come after the bold leadership of a single organization turned the fight against polio into a nationwide crusade. In an era before widespread government support for medical research, this organization used the new tools of mass media and public relations to galvanize millions of Americans to donate their money in time

to conquering polio. From the 1920s to the 1950s, Americans banded together to fund research to unlock the mysteries of polio and develop a vaccine to stop it. Along the way, these efforts would ignite a bitter rivalry between two brilliant and determined scientists, paving the way for the largest public health experiment in American history and culminating in one of the 20th century's greatest medical breakthroughs. This is episode one in our three-part series on Conquering Polio, The March of Dimes. In June 1916, polio stalked the streets of the Italian immigrant neighborhood of Pigtown in Brooklyn, New York. It began on June 6th, when two children suddenly developed a high fever and then paralysis.

More children soon came down with the same symptoms, and by the week's end, there were 33 cases. A week after that, cases grew to 150 across all five boroughs of New York. Since the 1880s, the United States had seen small, scattered outbreaks of polio, but nothing could prepare New York for the toll of the disease in the summer of 1916. As panic spread, city health officials enforced quarantines and sanitation teams flooded the streets, picking up trash and rounding up stray animals. In early July, movie theaters banned children under the age of 16, and public gatherings were canceled. Because polio was so poorly understood, residents were left to speculate about the cause of the outbreak. Rumors spread with many blaming

radio waves, tobacco smoke, automobile exhaust, and pasteurized milk. Immigrants living in crowded neighborhoods became convenient scapegoats, although studies later found that they had lower disease rates than native-born Americans in wealthier areas. And as fear grew, federal officials prohibited children from leaving the city without a certificate proving they were polio-free. Surrounding communities closed their borders, and armed police officers patrolled roads and railway stations to block travelers from New York City. But despite these efforts, by August, the disease has spread to upstate New York,

New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Connecticut. By the time this outbreak subsided in October 1916, There had been roughly 27,000 reported cases and more than 6,000 deaths. 40% of the deaths occurred in New York City alone, where most of the victims were children under five. They had all succumbed to America's first large-scale polio epidemic. Polio, short for poliomyelitis, is a highly contagious viral disease spread through contact with fecal matter,

typically via unwashed hands or contaminated food and water. Most infections result in no symptoms or mild symptoms, such as fever, nausea, and fatigue, but in some cases, the poliovirus invades the lung muscles and nervous system, leading to muscle weakness, breathing difficulties, paralysis, or even death. The disease was also known as infantile paralysis because it mostly struck infants and young children. And for centuries, polio circulated around the world, usually only causing mild infections that left people with lifelong immunity. Scientists first isolated the polio virus in 1908, around the time that the United States was beginning to see a dramatic rise in seasonal polio outbreaks.

But polio was still poorly understood in the early 20th century. Scientists and health officials grappled with a host of questions. How did polio spread? Why did it strike mainly in summer? Why did it target children? Why did the most serious outbreaks occur in the more modern, supposedly advanced nations of the West? and why, when advances in medicine had made other diseases more manageable, was polio so severe and unpredictable? By the turn of the century, sanitation improvements and medical advances had helped

combat infectious diseases like typhoid and cholera, but polio was on the rise. This paradox confounded scientists and health officials. In truth, polio spread more rapidly as the nation grew cleaner because improved sanitation delayed early exposure, leaving children without immunity. But at the time, health officials were flummoxed about the true contributors to these epidemics. Most experts believe that children from crowded and poor neighborhoods were the most vulnerable to polio. But five years after the 1916 epidemic, Americans were shocked to learn that polio had struck a rising political star from one of the nation's most wealthy and storied families, Franklin Delano Roosevelt. In the summer of 1921, Roosevelt was 39 years old. He had served as

assistant secretary of the Navy and had just lost the vice-presidential race on the Democratic ticket. But he was young, athletic, and popular, and many believed he had a bright political future. But shortly after attending a large Boy Scout jamboree, everything changed. Saying goodbye to the Boy Scouts, Roosevelt joined his family at their summer retreat on Campobello Island off the coast of Maine. On August 10, 1921, Roosevelt helped put out a forest fire, then took a swim in the icy waters of a nearby lake. That evening, evening, he suddenly had chills and felt achy, so he went to bed early. The next day, he woke up with a fever of 102 degrees, and his left leg dragged when he got out of bed. By that afternoon,

numbness had spread to both of his legs. His pain worsened to the point that he could not tolerate the feel of even his pajamas against his skin. He told his family, I don't know what's the matter with me, I just don't know. And deep down, he was worried that he was on the brink of death. Imagine it's August 1921, and you're on Campobello Island near the main coast. You're a friend and advisor to Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and you're pacing the floor of the sitting room inside the Roosevelt's summer home. Normally, the house is alive with the joyful sounds of children playing, but for the last three days it's been shrouded in silence. You're anxiously waiting as a doctor examines Roosevelt in his upstairs bedroom.

An elderly surgeon named Dr. William Kean walks down the stairs and into the stairs. sitting room. You fold your arms across your chest, racing for bad news. Well, doctor, what's the diagnosis? Dr. Keen takes off his glasses and absentmindedly cleans them with the cuff of his shirt. Oh, I assure you there's nothing to worry about. He must keep your wits about you. Now, doctor, my friend's struggling to walk. How can I not be worried? What's wrong with him? Well, it's clear to me that some sort of paralytic injury has occurred. What does that mean? I believe a blood clot has gotten lodged in Mr. Roosevelt's lower spinal cord, temporarily hampering his ability to move, but the prognosis is good. He should recover fully in a matter of weeks. Oh, and you're certain of that? Because it seems to me

the man's in some sort of downward spiral. He can't shake the fever, his numbness is getting worse. It's spread to both of his legs now, and I know he's doing his best to hide it. But the pain, you can see it all over him. Yes, but it should pass. As for the paralysis, I recommend deep tissue massage and exercise to stimulate the weakened muscles. If he finds it, follows my instructions he should recover in no time. The doctor then replaces his spectacles and scrawls a few words on a notepad, tearing off the sheet and handing it to you.

Here, please pass this on to the family. They can send payment to my office in Philadelphia. I'll show myself out. Dr. Keane heads for the door as you stand in place. Your eyes widening as you scan a bill totaling $600. You want to believe his diagnosis, but you've never seen your friend so frightened, and you can't shake the feeling, something is terribly wrong.

As Franklin Roosevelt's symptoms worsened, his family summoned multiple doctors to their summer home. The first doctor diagnosed him with a harmless buck. The second declared he had a blood clot in his spine, but insisted that Roosevelt's problems were temporary. But by the end of the week, Roosevelt was horrified to discover that he could no longer support his own weight. He'd become paralyzed from the waist down. At last, a third doctor examined Roosevelt and delivered the devastating news that Roosevelt was suffering from polio. Days later, a spinal tap confirmed the diagnosis. Little did Roosevelt, or his doctors know. His privileged upbringing meant that he was a uniquely vulnerable

target for polio. During his sheltered childhood, he had avoided exposure to the polio virus, leaving him without immunity and vulnerable to a more severe case in his adulthood. So after the acute phase of the illness had passed, Roosevelt traveled home to New York, careful to downplay his paralysis. Reporters saw him through the windows of a private train car, propped up with pillows and smiling for the cameras. News accounts confirmed that he had contracted polio, but they insisted that he was well on his way to recovery.

But after his diagnosis, Roosevelt's life would never be the same. Although his legs remained weak, with exercise, he strengthened his upper body, allowing him to stand and move with braces and a cane. He and his inner circle carefully orchestrated his public appearances so that few would ever see the full extent of his disability. But despite these efforts, Roosevelt feared that his career in politics was over. Still, he refused to believe that he would not walk again, so he experimented with saltwater baths, ultraviolet light, electric currents, and vigorous massage, but nothing worked. Then, in the fall of 1924, he discovered warm spring, a dilapidated resort in a pine forest outside of Atlanta, Georgia.

There, a polio survivor named Louis Joseph told Roosevelt that he had regained his ability to walk after spending three summers bathing in the resort's buoyant, mineral-rich waters. Roosevelt quickly became fascinated by the potential of hydrotherapy to rehabilitate polio survivors, and in 1926 he spent two-thirds of his personal fortune to purchase the property, turning it into a non-profit institution called the Georgia Warm Springs Foundation. Over the next few years, polio survivors from across America traveled to Warm Springs, hoping to regain their strength and find community. And that community at Warm Springs became an obsession for Roosevelt.

He made dozens of visits and built a home on the property. It was the only place where he could be himself without feeling the need to hide his paralysis. But despite having feared that his career in politics was over, In 1928, Democratic Party leaders persuaded him to run for governor of New York. And although he was reluctant to abandon his commitments to Warm Springs, he agreed and ultimately won a narrow victory. But Roosevelt's return to politics meant that he would need someone to take over the Warm Springs Foundation, so he turned to his young law partner, Basil O'Connor.

O'Connor and Roosevelt had met in 1922 in the lobby of a Manhattan office building when Roosevelt's crutches slipped out from under him on the polished marble floor. O'Connor saw Roosevelt fall and rushed to help him to his feet. Soon after, Roosevelt began consulting with O'Connor on legal matters, and in 1924, the pair formed the joint law practice, Roosevelt and O'Connor. This partnership proved to be mutually beneficial. Roosevelt offered his name and connections, while O'Connor did most of the work, freeing Roosevelt to focus on his recovery and his growing political career.

But on the surface, the two were an unlikely pair. Unlike Roosevelt, O'Connor had little family pedigree or personal charm. He grew up in a Catholic, working-class family, and was known to be serious and short-tempered. At age six, he peddled newspapers to help support his family, and by the time he was 10, he had won a monopoly over multiple paper routes. After skipping several grades, he paid for his college education by playing violin in a dance band. Then, after graduating from Harvard Law School, he built a demanding career as a Wall Street lawyer routinely working 14-hour days. He wore fashionable, tailored suits, and his favorite haunt was New York City's

Waldorf Astoria Hotel. But despite their differences, Roosevelt and O'Connor developed a warm and lasting friendship. Roosevelt admired O'Connor's tireless work ethic, while O'Connor was drawn to what he described as Roosevelt's bright spirit and tremendous humor. For Roosevelt, it was a natural choice to tap O'Connor to lead the Warm Springs Foundation, but initially O'Connor had little interest, reflecting on Roosevelt's decision to purchase the resort, O'Connor wrote, I thought he was crazy to want that big, goddamn four-story fire trap with the squirrels running in and out of the holes in the roof. And he never imagined himself running a charity, later recalling, I was never a public do-gooder

and had no aspirations of that kind. But his loyalty to Roosevelt outweighed his doubts about warm springs. O'Connor hoped that stepping in would allow his friend to fulfill his political ambitions, so he accepted the job, and much to his surprise, he began to enjoy the work, which suited his love of law, public relations, and giving orders. But just as O'Connor settled into his new role, everything changed. In the fall of 1929, the New York stock market crashed, sparking bank failures, farm foreclosures, and mass unemployment. It was the start of the Great Depression. And as the new head of the Warm Springs Foundation, O'Connor quickly ran up against the challenge of

running a charity during the worst economic crisis in America's history. Colleges, churches, and other charities had long relied on donations from the rich for their funding, but during the Great Depression, charitable donations plummeted. O'Connor found that previously generous benefactors were unable or unwilling to give to Warm Springs. One wealthy industrialist wrote, I haven't a thousand dollars, Doc, and if I did, I think there are many cases at home that could use it. But O'Connor refused to give up, and in the years to come, he would chart a new course for philanthropy, transforming the fight against a relatively uncommon disease into the greatest medical crusade America had ever seen.

Hello, American History Tellers, listeners. I have an exciting announcement. I am going on tour, coming to a theater near you. The very first show will be at the Granada Theater in Dallas, Texas on March 6th. going to be a thrilling evening of history, storytelling, and music with a full band behind me as we look back to explore the days that made America. And they aren't the days you might think. Sure, everyone knows July 4, 1776, but there are many other days that are maybe even more influential. So come out to see me live in Dallas or, for information on tickets and upcoming dates, go to American History Live.com. That's American History Live.com. Come see my Days that Made America

tour live on stage, go to American History Live.com. In 1932, the Great Depression propelled Franklin Delano Roosevelt into the White House. Most Americans blame President Herbert Hoover for the economic disaster, and Democrats saw Roosevelt as the natural choice to challenge Hoover. Although questions about his health lingered, Roosevelt projected strength and optimism, and he won a lands that. slide victory. But privately, he worried about his ability to lead the country through the crisis. On election night, he admitted to his son, I'm afraid I might not have the strength to do this job. But despite his fear of inadequacy, as president, Roosevelt made an important impact by becoming

a symbol of resilience for Americans affected by polio. He received hundreds of letters from polio survivors and their families, seeking his advice, describing their struggles with disability, and writing about the challenges of keeping up with their medical bills. But in all his replies, Roosevelt remained upbeat and encouraging. But with Roosevelt occupied by his duties as president, Basil O'Connor was solely responsible for sustaining the Warm Springs Foundation through the Great Depression, and he was determined to succeed even as he faced an uphill climb. Polio was on the rise, but annual donations had dwindled.

With money tight, O'Connor struggled to pay the bills, and he was forced to turn many patients away. realizing that Warm Springs couldn't survive without renewed funding, O'Connor approached Carl Beyer, a pioneer in the new field of public relations. Bayer had a flair for staging attention-grabbing PR campaigns. He had helped boost the popularity of everything from Cosmopolitan magazine and platinum blonde hair dye to America's entry into World War I. Now, O'Connor tasked Byer with turning things around for Warm Springs,

Bayer took the challenge head on. At a brainstorming session in 1933, he proposed an ambitious fundraiser and made it his personal mission to see it succeed. Imagine it's December 1933 in Albany, New York. You're the mayor, and you're walking to a meeting in City Hall with an aide. But as you round a corner, you find yourself face-to-face with a sharply dressed man with slicked back hair. You try to sidestep him, but he holds up a hand to stop you. Ah, Mr. Mayor, just a man I was looking for. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Carl Beyer.

I'm a representative of President Roosevelt's Warm Springs Foundation. The man thrusts out a hand. You shake it, your gaze narrowing slightly. Oh, how do you do? Well, I've come up from Manhattan to inform you that you've been given the honor of throwing the Albany birthday ball for the president's upcoming birthday this January. I'm sorry, excuse me? Well, surely you've heard that practically every city in town in America is throwing a birthday ball to help the president, carry out the fight against polio? I've sent you multiple letters, but the strange thing is, your city is one of the few that's yet to begin planning. You steal a meaningful glance at your aid, silently willing him to extract you from this conversation. Is that right? Well, I must have missed those letters. But you do want to help defeat polio, don't you? I mean, terrible disease, just

terrible. You know it cripples thousands of children every year. I have heard that. And isn't it through that you have a tough re-election campaign coming up next year? Yes, so much so that I really must be going. Well, it's just that if I were in your position, Mr. Mayor, I'd know I'd want to be seen as a protector of crippled children, wouldn't you? Well, certainly. It's just that, Mr. Mayor, do you really want to let Albany be one of the only major cities not taking part in this? No, I suppose not? Well, now, if you ask me, then you should get the local union halls to throw dances for the working people, and for the big wigs like yourself, a black tie banquet right here in City Hall. That would do nicely, wouldn't it? Uh, would it? It would. You could pose for the cameras

with some children and braces and wheelchairs, something to tug at the people's heartstrings a bit. That'd be just a ticket, don't you think? Well, I suppose it would burnish my image a bit. Terrific. Then it's all decided. My office will be in touch. Beyer grins and claps you on the shoulder. You grab your aid by the elbow and rush off towards your meeting, scrambling to make sense of what you've just been talked into. PR Trailblazer Carl Beyer believed that the strongest weapon in the fight against polio was the president himself. In late 1933, he contacted newspapers and city officials across the country, asking them to appoint local directors to organize birthday balls in their cities on Roosevelt's upcoming 52nd birthday.

Under the slogan, we dance so that others may walk, one dollar from every ticket would go to the Warm Springs Foundation. But when responses lagged, Bayer pressed harder, sending urgent letters and telegrams warning that nearly every city in town was already on board. He leaned heavily on Democratic Party allies, persuaded newspapers to run free ads, convinced phone companies to urge their subscribers to attend, and had department stores staged displays of clothing to be worn at the balls. In the end, Bayer's PR campaign was a success. On the night of January 30, 1934, more than 6,000 parties were held in taverns, church basements, and hotel ballrooms across America.

The grandest celebration unfolded at New York's Waldorf Astoria, where 5,000 guests watched 52 debutants and white gowns ascend a 28-foot-tiered birthday cake. When he approved the campaign, Basil O'Connor hoped these celebrations would bring in around $100,000 for his struggling foundation. But to his astonishment, in the end, the balls raised more than $1 million, far more than expected. It was an extraordinary feat in a time when most charities were failing, and the balls became an annual event and continued expanding in the following years. But not everyone applauded this successful campaign. Roosevelt's conservative critics refused to support a charity so closely

linked with the president they opposed. One Republican declared, I'm willing to contribute to the polio campaign on any day but Roosevelt's birthday. Some even accused him of exploiting the birthday balls for personal profit. So Roosevelt and O'Connor both realized it was time to depoliticize the fight against polio. In an effort to do that, in September 1937, Roosevelt announced the formation of the National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis, where NFIP, a nonpartisan initiative to fund polio care and research. Although it was founded by the president, it was set up as a private organization with no ties to the government. And in the 1930s, there was almost no federal money for polio research and rehabilitation. The Department of Health and the Centers for Disease Control did not yet exist,

and the only government agency involved in public health was the under-resourced U.S. Public Health Service. So in the absence of government aid, a single private organization, the NFIP, would take the lead in the polio crusade. Basil O'Connor took charge as the director of the NFIP, and while Warm Springs continued to support polio rehabilitation in Georgia, O'Connor's new organization would provide care and rehabilitation for every polio patient across America. Additionally, O'Connor pledged to invest in scientific research to help finally defeat polio. And although he knew little about the science of the disease, he quickly proved his administrative prowess. From his Manhattan office, he built the foundation into a tightly organized national enterprise,

complete with divisions for medical affairs, public relations, and fundraising. The foundation assumed oversight of the annual birthday balls, but O'Connor was convinced that fighting polio, would take far more than a once-a-year party. He had his sights set on raising millions of dollars, but he knew it would take a bold new idea to get there. That idea soon came from one of the most famous celebrities of the day, Eddie Cantor, a beloved vaudeville entertainer and friend of the president. The NFIP Public Relations Department had a unit for lining up support from Hollywood figures,

and Cantor was one of the first to get involved. At a 1938 strategy session, he proposed what he called the March of Dye, a play on the March of Time, a popular newsreel shown in movie theaters before the main feature. Cantor suggested that the Foundation asked Americans to mail their loose change directly to the White House to support the NFIP. Hearing this proposal, O'Connor was initially reluctant, fearing Roosevelt would reject a plan. But much to his surprise, Roosevelt agreed,

and Cantor went on his popular radio show to put out the call. He declared the March of Dimes will enable all persons, even the children, to show our president we are with him in this. battle. The response was overwhelming. Millions of dimes flooded the White House, raising $1.8 million and nearly shutting down government mail operations. The initiative was so popular that from that point onward, the NFIP's fundraising arm became known as the March of Dimes. By asking for small donations from millions of Americans, rather than seeking large donations from a few wealthy benefactors, the March of Dimes revolutionized philanthropy. So as funding poured in,

set his sights on finding a cure. To do that, he turned to pioneering virologist Thomas Rivers. Rivers insisted that polio could not be cured overnight, and that scientists must develop a more thorough understanding of the disease before they could develop a vaccine. He also knew that funding further research would be critical, so under his guidance, the NFIP issued grants to individual scientists and research labs at Yale, Johns Hopkins, and the University of Michigan. But research was a slow and time-consuming process. And with polio cases on the rise, patients needed urgent care now. In the late 1930s, there was almost no public health infrastructure for polio,

meaning the bulk of the NFIP's money went to caring directly for patients who had been disabled by polio and were forced to struggle at home. Caring for polio patients was extremely expensive and labor-intensive. But at the time, less than 10% of American families had any form of health insurance. Treatment costs often exceeded the average annual wage and hospitals were ill-equipped. Recognizing the need to fund both patient care and research, O'Connor came up with a plan. He structured the National Foundation so that local chapters, staff by salaried workers and unpaid volunteers, acted as the Foundation's eyes and ears, assessing patients' needs, local hospital

readiness and community resources. When volunteers on the ground raised funds, half the money went to the national office and half stayed in the local communities, ensuring that there was both money for research and direct aid. Over the next two decades, the NFIP would spend roughly two-thirds of its budget covering patient care for all who needed it, regardless of family income. More than 80 percent of America's polio patients ultimately received support from the foundation. But meeting that level of need required resources, so in the early 1940s, the March of Dines dramatically expanded its fundraising with creative new campaigns. O'Connor convinced the Hollywood studio heads to show short films about polio in theaters while volunteers pass collection boxes through the crowds.

In one memorable short titled The Cripler, a dark cloud hovered over a playground and then took the shape of a hunched figure cackling over its victims. The cloud was dispelled by a foundation volunteer played by a young Nancy Reagan. And fundraising to combat polio continued to expand even as the U.S. entered World War II in late 1941. Despite the pressing need to fund the war effort, Roosevelt had no intention of slowing down on polio, declaring, the health of our boys and girls is one of the front lines of our national defense. The continued push paid off, and total contribution soared from $1.8 million in 1938 to $19 million in 1945,

with 40% of the money coming from theaters alone. But in the end, the millions of dollars raised had done nothing to stop the spread of polio. Annual cases more than doubled from 1941 to 1944, reaching the highest level since the 1916 epidemic. And still, no one could explain why the threat of polio was growing or what could be done to stop it. Americans were quickly coming to terms with just how unprepared they were to face such a terrifying and unpredictable disease.

And in the summer of 1944, a deadly outbreak in North Carolina would put the National Foundation's Polio Crusade to the test. Imagine it's June 22nd, 1944 in Charlotte, North Carolina. You're a doctor treating polio patients on the front lawn of Charlotte Memorial Hospital. The wards inside have run out of beds, so all new patients have been packed into army tents outside. And after working more than 24 hours straight, you can barely stand. A car screeches to a stop in the driveway. in front of you. The driver yanks open the back door, scoops a little girl out of the back seat,

and runs toward you, clutching her tight against his chest. Hey, hey, are you a doctor? You're a doctor? You've got to help me. My daughter's burning up, and her legs, they've stopped moving. She couldn't get out of bed this morning. You put your hand against the girl's forehead. Her limp head bobs against her father's shoulder. Her curls matted with sweat. You force yourself to meet her father's eyes. Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I'm afraid there's nothing I could do for her here. We're out of space. The hospital's completely overwhelmed. You're going to have to take her somewhere else. No, no, no, no. We came all the way over the mountains from Hickory. There's nowhere else to go. You have to help her. I'm begging you.

Well, all right, set her down. Let me take a look. You gesture to a table beside you. He gently lays his daughter down and you press your stethoscope against her chest. Her breath is shallow but steady. She's not in immediate danger. But we can't take her. Even if we had any more beds, we don't have enough nurses. You're telling me there's nothing you can do? You lift up the girl's legs to examine them. They hang uselessly. Their eyes flutter open for a moment, and you swallow hard.

Just keep her cool. Give her plenty of fluids. What about her legs? Is she paralyzed? You can try applying hot, moist, wool, and cloths to the affected muscles. And watch her breathing. If she starts gasping, try taking her to the hospital in Winston-Salem. They may have room.

How can this happen? What are we going to do? I'm sorry, sir. The man shakes his head and gathers the girl back into his arms. As he takes her back to his car, her nurse waves you over. You take a deep breath trying to steady yourself, wondering how many more patients you'll have to turn away before this outbreak ends. In early June, 1944, a young boy in the small furniture-making town of Hickory, North Carolina,

fell ill with a fever and a stiff neck. He was rushed to Memorial Hospital in Charlotte, 60 miles away, where he was diagnosed with polio. More polio cases followed, so many that the hospital's isolation ward soon ran out of beds. Tants were pitched on the hospital lawn to care for the sick, but before long, doctors were forced to turn any new patients away. Soon after, the press dubbed Hickory Polio City.

Pools, theaters, and libraries closed. trains bypassed the town entirely, and neighboring states warned residents to stay away. Local newspapers and flyers offered polio pointers, urging rest, avoiding polluted water, and limiting contact with other children. One resident recalled, outsiders shunned our people as they would lepers. But when word of the outbreak reached Basil O'Connor in New York, he took charge of the crisis, viewing it as a chance to fight the disease on the ground and as a potential publicity windfall.

He decided to fund and staff an emergency hospital in Hickory to be built by local residents at a nearby summer camp. It was a risky move that meant inviting more patients into a town already ravaged by disease. But when the call went out for help, hundreds volunteered. Carpenters and electricians brought their own tools. Farmers delivered meat and vegetables. The local telephone company installed a switchboard

and families loaned their washing machines and vacuum cleaners. In just 54 hours, a makeshift pine board hospital, hospital was up and running, complete with wards, therapy rooms, a lab, and operating facilities. One doctor in Hickory later recalled the seemingly endless line of vehicles the night the hospital opened, declaring, we opened the door of ambulance after ambulance. One mother rose from her crouching position over her child, put her fingers to her lips, she whispered. He's been sleeping since we left Charlotte. The child was dead. Nurses and therapists trained through NFIP grants arrived to care for the sick, and the foundation also flew in medical supplies,

hydrotherapy tanks, and iron lungs, large metal respirators that help patients breathe when polio weaken their chest muscles. Patients were encased in the machines from the neck down, so air could be pumped in and out of their lungs. These devices were cumbersome and costly, but they saved thousands of lives. For most, they were a temporary measure, used during the acute phase of polio, but in some rare cases, victims relied on them for years. Patients in Hickory were also subjected to experimental treatments popularized by an Australian nurse with no formal training known as Sister Elizabeth Kenny. Traditionally, doctors use plaster casts and splints to immobilize weakened limbs.

But in the 1940s, Kenny popularized a controversial new treatment. Therapists dipped wool blankets in boiling water and wrapped them around the patient's limbs in the hopes of helping them regain feeling and movement. The treatments were painful and often caused burns, and the smell of boiled wool became familiar in polio wards like Hickories. By the time the outbreak faded in the fall of 1945, Hickory's makeshift hospital had treated 454 patients, and the NFIP had spent $400,000.

Afterwards, the March of Dimes prominently featured the so-called miracle of Hickory in their fundraising efforts. But just a few months after the Hickory outbreak, the Foundation received a major blow. In April 1945, President Franklin Rosel died after suffering from a stroke while on vacation at Warm Springs. The news stunned the nation and sent shockwaves through the NFIP, the organization he had founded and championed. With Roosevelt's death, the annual birthday balls came to an end, and Hollywood's enthusiasm for

the cause faded. The movie studios ended their theater collection boxes, a decision that a furious Basil O'Connor called a dirty trick. Nearly two decades had passed since O'Connor first entered the fight against polio. then, his devotion to the cause had grown far beyond his personal loyalty to Roosevelt. The fight against polio had become his life mission and the primary outlet for his legendary work ethic. But after Roosevelt's death, the loss of revenue forced him to work even harder and to diversify his fundraising tactics. So he decided to focus on the plight of disabled children, hoping he could persuade more parents to join his crusade. And in the years following World War II, Americans enjoyed

economic growth, rising living standards, and the promise of a secure and comfortable future. A renewed emphasis on marriage and family life spurred a post-war baby boom, but polio still cast a shadow over the era's optimism. By 1946, the number of reported polio cases surged to 25,000, making it the fastest growing infectious disease among children. In truth, polio was not as deadly as the press and the NFIP made it seem. Children died of accidents and cancer at far higher rates, but the visible suffering of young boys and girls struggling to walk in braces were lying helplessly in iron lungs gave the disease an outsized grip on the national imagination.

And every summer, terrified parents became hyper-bigilant, keeping their children inside and monitoring them for symptoms. The NFIP capitalized on this public fear to drive fundraising, transforming the disease into a national crisis. The Foundation's Public Relations Department flooded magazines and newspapers with information and stories about polio. In 1946, it introduced its first official poster child, six-year-old polio survivor Donald Anderson.

A before picture depicted him as a sick three-year-old in a neck brace. The after-picture of him was Anderson as a happy and healthy six-year-old marching forward with a caption, Your Dimes, did this for me. The NFIP also mobilized an army of parent volunteers, especially mothers, a women's division, organized fashion show, sewing, bees and telethons that raised millions, and on the grassroots level, women went door-to-door

in their neighborhoods, soliciting donations and organizing mothers' marches. Thanks to these and other tactics, the NFIP had become a fundraising juggernaut. But Basil O'Connor knew that the war against polio could not be won until there was a vaccine. By the late 1940s, antibiotics like penicillin had defeated deadly bacterial diseases, and life expectancy had soared, leading Americans to believe science could. conquer anything. Yet after decades of research, the secret to defeating polio remained a mystery, and scientists were losing hope. Basil O'Connor refused to slow down. He was determined to find a scientist as relentless as he was, someone who was willing to rise to the challenge

and finally find a way to defeat polio once and for all. From Wonder E, this is episode one of our three-part series on Conquering Polio for American History Tellers. In the next episode, in a basement lab in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, a young researcher named Jonas Salk embarked on the mammoth task of identifying every type of polio virus. And as the number of annual polio cases continues to rise, Basil O'Connor resolves to begin testing an experimental vaccine. If you like American history tellers, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondry app or on Apple Podcasts.

members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at Wondry.com slash survey. American History Tellers is hosted, edited and produced by me, Lindsay Graham for Airship. Audio editing by Mohamed Shazib, sound designed by Molly Bach, music by Thrum. This episode is written by Ellie Stanton, edited by Dorian Marina, managing producer Desi Blalek, senior producers Alita Ruzanski and Andy Beckerman. Executive producers are Jenny Lauer Beckman and Marshall Louis for Wondering.