Dick Cheney said he was running again. He said his health was

“Dick Cheney said he was running again. He said his health was fine, ‘I've got a doctor with me 24 hours a day.’ Yeah, that's always the sign of a man in good health, isn't it?” — David Letterman

Hear now the wry wisdom of David Letterman, the jester-philosopher of the modern age, who through humor unveils the truths that power often hides behind polite words. In this quote, though it is cloaked in laughter, there lies a sharp reflection on health, power, and the illusions of control. Letterman speaks of Dick Cheney, former Vice President of the United States, a man whose will was iron and whose career endured despite a heart often burdened by illness. When Cheney claimed his health was fine because he kept a doctor at his side day and night, Letterman’s wit struck like lightning — exposing the absurdity of mistaking constant medical supervision for wellness itself. For true health, as the wise know, is not the presence of medicine, but the absence of need for it.

The origin of this saying lies in the great tapestry of American satire, where comedians serve as truth-tellers in a world of ceremony and pretense. Letterman, standing upon the stage of late-night television, was more than a bringer of laughter — he was a mirror held to the powerful. His jest about Cheney was not cruelty, but critique: a reminder that power cannot buy vitality, and that no man, however mighty, escapes the laws of nature. When a ruler must be watched over by physicians unceasingly, it is not health that sustains him, but intervention. And when such a man insists that all is well, the comedian’s voice arises, piercing the veil of denial with the soft blade of irony.

In these words, one may hear an echo of ancient wisdom — that hubris, the arrogance that blinds mortals to their frailty, often walks beside the throne. The Greeks taught that no king, no warrior, no emperor can command his body as he commands his armies. Even the mighty Alexander, conqueror of worlds, fell not to his enemies, but to fever; even the emperors of Rome, surrounded by legions, could not purchase another heartbeat when their time came. Thus, when Letterman laughs at the image of a man declaring himself healthy while guarded by doctors, he does so with the same insight as the sages of old: that mortality humbles all, and that to boast of health while bound to medicine is to mistake survival for strength.

Consider, O listener, the tale of Franklin D. Roosevelt, another leader who ruled from a seat of power while his body suffered quietly. Stricken by polio, he led a nation through depression and war, carried not by physical might but by mental endurance. Yet even he knew the truth that Letterman hints at: health is not sustained by denial. FDR concealed his weakness to preserve the image of vigor, yet those closest to him saw the toll of labor upon his frail frame. The lesson, as in Cheney’s story, is that health is not merely the appearance of strength, nor the possession of care, but the balance between body, spirit, and humility.

Letterman’s humor, though playful, carries compassion as well as irony. For in mocking the powerful, he reminds us to look within — to see how easily we deceive ourselves about our own well-being. Many live as Cheney did, proclaiming “I’m fine” while the body cries for rest, while the spirit is weary. The comedian’s laughter becomes the voice of wisdom, urging us to see truth beneath comfort, to accept our vulnerability as the beginning of genuine healing. True health, as the ancients said, is not the absence of death but the harmony of living — a peace that requires honesty with oneself.

There is also in this saying a reflection on the illusion of control, that eternal folly of humanity. We build machines to replace the heart, we create medicines to cheat pain, we summon doctors as sentinels against the inevitable — yet the body remains mortal clay. To surround oneself with doctors is not strength, but dependence. Letterman, with a single jest, unmasks this fragility, reminding us that health cannot be manufactured, only cultivated through balance, humility, and respect for the limits of life.

Let this, then, be the lesson for those who hear: laughter is often the cloak of truth, and the fool on the stage may be wiser than the ruler in the palace. Do not boast of health while you live in exhaustion; do not mistake maintenance for vitality. Instead, care for your body as you would care for a sacred temple — not through pride, but through mindfulness. Rest when you are weary, seek simplicity over excess, and remember that the greatest physician is often peace itself. For as David Letterman teaches through jest, a man truly healthy has no need to prove it, and the one who must be guarded constantly is not a symbol of strength, but a reminder that all flesh, however powerful, remains fragile under the gaze of time.

Thus, beneath the laughter lies the timeless truth: no crown, no doctor, no power can preserve the body forever — only wisdom can preserve the soul.