Frances Oldham Kelsey: fame, gender, and science

Frances Oldham Kelsey, pharmacologist, physician, and professor, found fame soon after she finally, well into her forties, landed a permanent position as medical reviewer for the Food and Drug Administration in 1961. One of the first files to cross her desk was for the sedative thalidomide (tradename Kevadon), which was very popular in Europe and other nations for treating morning sickness.

But Kelsey, along with the other pharmacologist and chemist on her team, found the New Drug Application (NDA) submitted by Merrill Pharmaceuticals to include incomplete, shoddy research, and she put off approving the drug until studies came out of Europe about thalidomide’s extreme toxicity to fetuses. Thousands of babies were born with no arms or legs, malformed hearts, and other defects.

By August 1962, Kelsey was feted in the national and international press for preventing the drug from general use in the United States, and added award dinners, interviews, speeches, and receptions to her already busy work schedule.

Yet behind the scenes, she had to gingerly negotiate around aggrieved colleagues who were overlooked for their efforts (as she was the first to admit). Worse yet, there were a series of FDA Commissioners and senior executives whose power and lofty titles didn’t translate to as much publicity as America’s Good Mother of Science. James (Go Go) Goddard, for instance, was highly miffed when the announcement of his nomination as FDA Commissioner was accompanied by a photo of Kelsey.

The fact that Kelsey was a woman certainly did not help. She had bumped her head on glass ceilings right through graduate school and beyond, when her fellow students attained university appointments and she did not. A career in science was a man’s game, as was the drug industry. A photograph of Kelsey and FDA colleagues explaining amended drug policies to pharmaceutical executives portrayed a sole woman facing down a sea of hostile men. But she persisted, confident in her training and knowledge, and true to her moral compass.

What was unique about Frances Kelsey in the 1960s was the seamless way she integrated all her roles. The stereotypical female physician or scientist of the time (and they were a minority) was unmarried, abrasive, and dispassionate. Dr. Kelsey was happily married to a fellow pharmacologist and was raising two teenaged girls.

She had lots of friends, entertained, played golf and tennis, gardened, and generally enjoyed life. Kelsey was also a resident physician at her daughters’ Girl Scout Camp in South Dakota. And she loved doing science—dissecting whale glands, studying rabbit embryos under the microscope, and reading up on all the latest research.

When she postponed approval of the Kevadon NDA, it was not based on her husband’s advice, or being too nitpicky, or even procrastination and the messiness of her desk, as some opponents and journalists charged, but due to her careful application of scientific methods.

Dr. Kelsey did not shy away from the Good Mother of Science label. She gave speeches to female students and interviews in women’s magazines about the potential dangers of using drugs in pregnancy, and also its necessity in some cases. She headed another FDA file relating to foetal health—the consequences of the administration of the estrogen diethylstilbestrol (DES) to pregnant women in clinical trials, which resulted in serious injuries for many mothers and their children.

The American public appreciated all of these efforts, as they made evident in the thousands of pieces of fan mail they sent to Dr. Kelsey’s home and office. One theme ran throughout these letters, post cards, poems, and songs. It was not how can a woman be a scientist? It was why aren’t there more women in science doing great things for the benefit of all?

_{Featured image by National Cancer Institute via Unsplash.}