Former Vice President Dick Cheney’s legacy includes his protracted cardiovascular struggles, revealing both personal resilience and national security concerns.
In a co-authored memoir titled Heart: An American Medical Odyssey, Cheney and his longtime cardiologist, Jonathan Reiner, detailed a journey that began with Cheney’s first heart attack at age 37 and culminated in a 2012 heart transplant.
Reiner later described Cheney as having “the longest history of heart disease of any of my patients … the most complex history in terms of how difficult his disease became, the most number of moving parts. And he happens to be Dick Cheney.”
That commentary sheds new light on a man known for commanding the arena of geopolitics while privately battling a body ravaged by disease.
Within the book, Cheney reveals that he had the wireless functionality of his implanted defibrillator turned off out of fear that terrorists might remotely trigger a fatal shock to his heart. He said that in 2007, his device’s wireless feature was disabled by his medical team so “somebody on a rope line or in the next hotel room or downstairs might be able to get into—hack into” it.
The link between Cheney’s health and national‐security concerns stands out. A life-saving device represented a theoretical threat, reflecting the tension between public duty and personal vulnerability. In a 2013 USA TODAY interview, he denied receiving special medical treatment, saying, “It’s not true,” when asked if his care was enhanced due to his office.
Beyond the defibrillator anomaly, the book traces nearly every major advancement in cardiac care across decades—and Cheney’s near constant exposure to them.
Reiner writes that “every time he approached one of these red lights because of his disease, medicine had just developed something that could help him.”
Indeed, from stents and bypass surgery to ventricular assist devices and transplant, Cheney’s story is intertwined with the evolution of modern cardiology.
One passage of the book is particularly poignant: “And all that’s left to show that I was a heart patient was that scar on my chest,” Cheney writes, reflecting on his transplant. That remark underlines both the visible and invisible scars at the intersection of power and mortality.
Yet, while the medical narrative is compelling, it raises broader questions for journalists and the public alike: How does one reconcile the image of a national leader—wielding vast influence and directing wars—with that of a patient whose body repeatedly failed him? And how much does access to elite medical care shape one’s capacity to endure what might otherwise be fatal?
He may have denied receiving preferential treatment, but critics note that his longevity—with five heart attacks, chronic heart disease, and eventual transplant—is far more enviable than typical outcomes for coronary-artery disease patients in the U.S. That discrepancy invites reflection on equity in healthcare, particularly for public figures whose roles demand near-constant physical readiness.
Cheney’s medical odyssey offers a rich narrative thread—less about policy, more about the human cost of prolonged survival amid sustained ambition. It reminds us that leadership is not only about decisions made in war rooms or Oval Offices, but sometimes about the quiet, constant struggle within the body of someone entrusted with great responsibility.
Cheney once remarked he awoke each morning “with a smile on my face, thankful for the gift of another day.” That sentiment contrasts sharply with the security-focused vice president many recall—a man projecting power outward while privately managing frailty. The juxtaposition itself is telling.
Ultimately, Cheney’s heart story reveals a vital dimension of his legacy: that the physical vulnerabilities and survival of leaders like Cheney profoundly shape their ability to serve and endure, complicating the interplay between personal health and public duty. Understanding this connection is crucial to comprehending the narratives of power and responsibility.
