Mediaczar

I woke up this morning, and realised that I’m suddenly in early middle age. On the bedside table were three sets of prescription pills; something that I have ever only really associated with - you know - old people. I can’t be old. I’m not married, and have no children. I’n my imagination, I’m still just approaching grown-upness. Apparently, like Binkie Huckaback, I am in fact an ageing juvenile.

Despite not being very sporty, or taking great care of myself, I’ve always been fairly fit and strong. I fancifully attribute this to my genetic past; I like to thing that my ancestry is equal part displaced desert tribes and farmers. Whatever the case, despite my none-too-clean-living twenties it seemed that I could do what I liked and never really count the cost.

But today those pills told me that I’m not the man I used to be.

To be fair, things have been creeping up on me for a while. A badly-healed broken collar bone from my early twenties is getting a little arthritic these days. Torn cartiledge in my left knee makes a nasty snapping crackling and popping noise. But nothing, I thought, more than the usual dents and scratches you’d expect; stuff that could be hammered out, and polished over.

But things have begun to change.

About five years ago I was diagnosed with Meniere’s disease: a nasty inner-ear problem which creeps up unexpectedly, and leaves me faint and nauseous with dizziness for a couple of hours; and which often keeps me light-headed and disoriented for days at a time. At the time of diagnosis, I decided that - since there was no actual cure - and the lifestyle changes that the specialist suggested were so seemingly onerous - that I would follow the habit of a lifetime, and simply tough it out.

This seemed to work for a while; but recently I found myself in a New York hotel room scared to move, or eat, or indeed do anything that might bring on another attack. The first real attack came on during a new business pitch, after which I was laid up for four days - missing all the meetings and training sessions that had been scheduled for that trip.

So a month ago, out of a sense of duty to myself and my employers, I went back to the specialist, and actually listened to what she had to say. I still don’t like it very much, but I’m going to give it a go.

I’m on a low-salt diet. I’ve always been a bit of a gourmand; and taking salt out of my diet is quite a challenge. I’m also supposed to be off caffeine and alcohol (although I’m taking the whole alcohol thing a little less seriously than I should.)

To strip even more salt out of my body, I’m taking a course of diuretics. I think I’m taking the same brand as my grandmother. This does not make me feel more manly. Two every morning

Because the diuretics and the diet also leach out potassium, I’m taking potassium replacement pills. Two tablets, three times a day.

The Meniere’s attacks are generally brought on by tiredness and stress. The blue pot contains some diazepam that I got from a hotel doctor in San Francisco after a severe combination of jet lag sleeplessness and what seemed like anxiety attacks. They’re more there for reassurance than anything else.

Insomnia’s been one of those things that bothered me for as long as I can remember. In my twenties and early thirties, I found that this meant that I had longer to work on things or to party. But in my late thirties, it’s a drag; particularly as I travel a bit, which means my body clock’s all screwed up anyway. My GP has prescribed me sleeping tablets - I don’t take them every night, but again - it’s reassuring to know they’re there.