I’m a Cardiologist, and I Plan to Be Cryogenically Frozen

The decision isn’t about fear of death. It’s more about curiosity — and a reluctance to let the story end if there’s any chance it doesn’t have to

Cristina LePort,

AARP

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Published June 19, 2026

a woman looks like she is stepping into heaven inside a cryogenic chamber

Dr. Cristina LePort began questioning whether the end has to be final — and plans to be cryogenically preserved at -196°C.

Lars Leetaru

I have spent my life in the presence of the heart: its rhythm, its resilience and, inevitably, its silence. As a cardiologist, my work has always been about delaying that silence for as long as possible.

But as I’ve grown older alongside my patients, I’ve found myself confronting a question that medicine doesn’t like to answer: What if the end doesn’t have to be final?

For many people, the answer lies in faith. I was raised Catholic, and for much of my life, I assumed there was something beyond this one. Over time, though, through years of medical practice and reflection, I found myself less certain.

What I do know is this: The “you” that thinks, remembers and experiences the world depends on the brain. When the brain is gone, everything that makes you you appears to go with it.

That realization led me somewhere unexpected.

Fifteen years ago, I made a decision that surprises almost everyone I tell: When I die, I plan to be cryogenically preserved.

What being cryogenically preserved actually means

Cryonics is often misunderstood as simply “freezing” a body. In reality, freezing is exactly what scientists try to avoid.

Instead, the goal is something called vitrification, a process that replaces blood with a medical-grade solution and cools the body to extremely low temperatures without forming damaging ice crystals. At around -196°C, in liquid nitrogen, biological activity effectively stops.

LePort is a cardiologist and novelist. Here, she holds her latest book, “Defrosted: A Medical & Political Thriller,” published in June 2026. The book follows cryogenically preserved scientist Dr. Peter Royce and his wife, Monica, after they awaken to a dystopian world.

Courtesy Cristina LePort

This isn’t science fiction. Variations of this process are already used to preserve embryos and reproductive cells. In recent years, researchers have even successfully preserved and transplanted vitrified organs, such as kidneys, in animal models after rewarming them.

But here’s the part that matters most: No one has ever brought a human being back.

And we are not close.

The hard truth about cryogenics

As a physician, I’m very aware of the gap between possibility and reality.

Preserving a structure, like a kidney or even a brain, is one challenge. Restoring it to full function is another entirely. The human brain, in particular, presents a profound problem. It isn’t just tissue; it’s memory, identity, personality — the “software” of who we are.

Some experimental techniques can preserve the brain’s structure with remarkable detail. But the same processes can destroy the biological activity needed for life. In simple terms, we may be able to preserve a brain the way we preserve a photograph — but not restart it.

So why do it?

Given all that uncertainty, people often ask me: “Why sign up at all?”

The honest answer is that I don’t know if it will ever work.

But I do know this: Doing nothing guarantees one outcome.

Cryonics, however speculative, introduces a second possibility, however small.

For me, the decision came down to how I think about risk and uncertainty. In medicine, we often make choices under imperfect conditions. We try a treatment not because we are certain it will succeed, but because the alternative offers no chance at all.

I see cryonics in a similar way. It’s not a promise. It’s closer to a long-shot bet.

What it feels like to make that choice

This decision wasn’t about a fear of death, at least not in the way people assume.

It’s more about curiosity — and perhaps a reluctance to let the story end if there’s any chance it doesn’t have to.

I came to the United States from Italy and built a life in medicine during a period of extraordinary scientific progress. I’ve watched treatments once considered impossible become routine. Heart surgeries, organ transplants, advanced imaging: These were all breakthroughs that not long ago seemed out of reach.

That history doesn’t prove cryonics will work. But it does make me cautious about declaring something permanently impossible.

At the same time, I’m fully aware this choice may never matter. The most likely outcome is that I will never “wake up.” I’m at peace with that.

Ethical questions

What surprised me most after signing up wasn’t the science. It was the ethical and emotional questions that followed.

If revival were possible, who would be brought back, and why?
Would it be limited to those who could afford it?
What would it mean to return to a world where everyone you knew is gone?
Would you even be the same person?

And perhaps the most immediate question: If you had even a small chance to extend your life into the future, would you take it?

To that question, there’s no right answer.

A different way to think about the end

As our population ages, we are all, in one way or another, thinking about what comes next — medically, personally and philosophically.

Cryonics sits at the far edge of that conversation. It’s not a mainstream choice, and it may never become one. It may ultimately prove to be a scientific dead end.

But it does force us to confront something important: What is the goal of medicine?

Is it simply to manage decline? Or is it to preserve life, and identity, for as long as possible, even when the path forward is uncertain?

For me, cryonics represents one possible answer. Not the only one, and certainly not a proven one.

Just a choice.

Where I land

I don’t see cryonics as a guarantee, or even as likely.

I see it as an option that aligns with how I’ve spent my life thinking as a physician: Weigh the risks, understand the limits and make the best decision you can with the information available.

When my time comes, I will take that chance.

Not because I’m convinced it will work.

But because I’m not entirely convinced it won’t.

AARP essays share a point of view in the author’s voice, drawn from expertise or experience, and do not necessarily reflect the views of AARP.

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Dr. Cristina LePort is a board-certified cardiologist and an author of medical thrillers grounded in personal experience and professional expertise. In her recently published novel, Defrosted, she explores the science and ethics of cryonics.