Read Online Heart: An American Medical Odyssey by Dick Cheney, Jonathan Reiner - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dick Cheney, Jonathan Reiner
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out.” Some people are hesitant to go to a hospital and embarrassed if they do rush to the ER only to find out they aren’t having a heart attack. I have never understood this. I knew that getting to the hospital could mean the difference between life and death if I were having an attack, so for me there was never any question of getting it checked out. There were some memorable false alarms, though.
One I will never forget occurred during a delegation visit to Tokyo in September 1981. Lynne and I were in Japan with a small group of congressmen and senators under the auspices of the Center for Strategic and International Studies. One evening in our hotel, I felt some chest discomfort and consulted the hotel physician, who recommended I go to the local hospital. The doctor summoned the ambulance, which arrived carrying an emergency team of six paramedics, all of whom wore yellow hard hats and none of whom spoke English. My Japanese was nonexistent. The language barrier didn’t prevent me from noticing the paramedics” intense interest in the cowboy boots I was wearing, and with all the pointing and gesturing that went on, I got the idea that they thought my footwear was pretty exotic. The blaring sirens of the ambulance that rushed me to the hospital sounded exactly like the ones in the movie Godzilla . I couldn’t get the images of a giant monster rampaging through the streets of Tokyo from my mind.
While I was in the emergency room, I was pleasantly surprised when the US ambassador to Japan, former senator Mike Mansfield, walked in. Mike was a longtime senator from my neighboring state of Montana and had been the majority leader of the Senate for many years. I deeply appreciated his gracious act of coming to the hospital to check on me.
Another rush to the hospital occurred while I was hosting a staff retreat at Flat Creek Ranch near Jackson Hole. I began to have some chest discomfort and told Lynne we needed to get to the hospital in Jackson to have it checked out. Lynne got my state representative, Merritt Benson, to drive both of us into town. The road in and out of the ranch was actually a National Forest Service jeep track for about two-thirds of the way, and it was like driving on a dry, rocky riverbed. Though the ranch is only fifteen miles from the town of Jackson, the road conditions can make the trip as long as two hours. It turned out I wasn’t having a heart attack, but bouncing along the dirt road as Lynne urged Merritt to go faster was in itself a somewhat stressful experience.
So I was careful about heeding alarm bells, but I didn’t spend a whole lot of time thinking about my heart condition. Of course, in hindsight, thatfirst heart attack in 1978 was the initial manifestation of what would become a lifelong battle with coronary artery disease. At the time I didn’t think of it in those terms. I thought of my heart attack as something behind me, something I could avoid a repetition of by taking care of myself. The heart attack and the surrounding publicity had in no way impaired my election campaign or my career in Congress. Indeed it was possible to believe it had had a positive effect to the extent it raised my name recognition across Wyoming. And perhaps most important of all, it had made me quit my smoking habit cold turkey. I had not had a cigarette since the night I passed out in the emergency room at Cheyenne Memorial Hospital. If I hadn’t been inspired to do that, my life would have undoubtedly ended long ago.
DR. REINER
An eclectic playlist streams softly in the background as I back through the doorway, warm water dripping from my arms. The staff, wearing masks, scrubs, and several pounds of protective lead, go about their jobs with an efficient, good-humored professionalism. The patient, covered neck to toe by a blue surgical drape, lies cruciform on a narrow gantry, eyes closed in a fentanyl-induced fugue, his right arm strapped to a board, palm up and perpendicular to the table, an
One I will never forget occurred during a delegation visit to Tokyo in September 1981. Lynne and I were in Japan with a small group of congressmen and senators under the auspices of the Center for Strategic and International Studies. One evening in our hotel, I felt some chest discomfort and consulted the hotel physician, who recommended I go to the local hospital. The doctor summoned the ambulance, which arrived carrying an emergency team of six paramedics, all of whom wore yellow hard hats and none of whom spoke English. My Japanese was nonexistent. The language barrier didn’t prevent me from noticing the paramedics” intense interest in the cowboy boots I was wearing, and with all the pointing and gesturing that went on, I got the idea that they thought my footwear was pretty exotic. The blaring sirens of the ambulance that rushed me to the hospital sounded exactly like the ones in the movie Godzilla . I couldn’t get the images of a giant monster rampaging through the streets of Tokyo from my mind.
While I was in the emergency room, I was pleasantly surprised when the US ambassador to Japan, former senator Mike Mansfield, walked in. Mike was a longtime senator from my neighboring state of Montana and had been the majority leader of the Senate for many years. I deeply appreciated his gracious act of coming to the hospital to check on me.
Another rush to the hospital occurred while I was hosting a staff retreat at Flat Creek Ranch near Jackson Hole. I began to have some chest discomfort and told Lynne we needed to get to the hospital in Jackson to have it checked out. Lynne got my state representative, Merritt Benson, to drive both of us into town. The road in and out of the ranch was actually a National Forest Service jeep track for about two-thirds of the way, and it was like driving on a dry, rocky riverbed. Though the ranch is only fifteen miles from the town of Jackson, the road conditions can make the trip as long as two hours. It turned out I wasn’t having a heart attack, but bouncing along the dirt road as Lynne urged Merritt to go faster was in itself a somewhat stressful experience.
So I was careful about heeding alarm bells, but I didn’t spend a whole lot of time thinking about my heart condition. Of course, in hindsight, thatfirst heart attack in 1978 was the initial manifestation of what would become a lifelong battle with coronary artery disease. At the time I didn’t think of it in those terms. I thought of my heart attack as something behind me, something I could avoid a repetition of by taking care of myself. The heart attack and the surrounding publicity had in no way impaired my election campaign or my career in Congress. Indeed it was possible to believe it had had a positive effect to the extent it raised my name recognition across Wyoming. And perhaps most important of all, it had made me quit my smoking habit cold turkey. I had not had a cigarette since the night I passed out in the emergency room at Cheyenne Memorial Hospital. If I hadn’t been inspired to do that, my life would have undoubtedly ended long ago.
DR. REINER
An eclectic playlist streams softly in the background as I back through the doorway, warm water dripping from my arms. The staff, wearing masks, scrubs, and several pounds of protective lead, go about their jobs with an efficient, good-humored professionalism. The patient, covered neck to toe by a blue surgical drape, lies cruciform on a narrow gantry, eyes closed in a fentanyl-induced fugue, his right arm strapped to a board, palm up and perpendicular to the table, an
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