I drink for a living, which is to say I write about wine. But in my line of work, it's the research that'll kill you. Sure, tasting is often of the 9:00 A.M. swirl-and-spit variety, but just as frequently it's a raging 12-course feast that ends at 4:00 A.M. And when I work overtime, it's me who pays.
Which is fine — I love my job — except that recently I turned 35, and phantom muscle aches led me to suspect a likely culprit: my liver. A quick self-assessment showed that at 5'11'', 155 pounds, I was still pretty lean, but my weight had begun redistributing itself in unflattering ways. I was a sprinter in high school, and until my late twenties kept reasonably fit by skating half-pipes. At 30, however, I quit: I had only the scant insurance of the self-employed, and a recurring nightmare of broken bones I could ill afford. Besides, I was beginning to think I didn't really belong among the alternateens in Green Day tees and, worse, their Chuck Taylor – wearing mothers berating the little X-Gamers to "Skate tougher!"
Sure enough, my aches and pains increased, and I decided it was time to seek professional help. As it happens, my father is a liver specialist in Dallas, with a laboratory at the University of Texas Southwestern. But I dreaded going to Dad with my cirrhotic anxieties. He's the absolute nicest guy, but when it comes to his sons' shortcomings, he can be a martinet. To wit: When I was 13 and deep into punk music, he once cautioned that if I ever got an earring — I really wanted to do the multiple-safety-pins-thing — he'd cut my ear off. Once apprised of my drinking, I figured, all he'd give me was a 12-step pamphlet and a stern lecture. And that was the best-case scenario.
Luckily, Eric Braverman, M.D., is not my father. He's the founder of PATH Medical (Place for Achieving Total Health) in Manhattan, and his 2006 book, Younger You, floats the theory that different parts of the body age at different rates, and that you're only as young as your "oldest" body part. According to Braverman, you want to make that oldest part younger, lest it "pressure the rest of your body to deteriorate."
The thought of my graying liver cajoling my spleen and heart to belly up to the bar was grossly disturbing, so I made an appointment for an ultrasound. Braverman met me in his office and showed me a photo of a healthy liver, which was blood red, shiny, and, in its own way, beautiful. And then there was the alcoholic or "fatty" liver, which looked like a bruised and rotting foie gras.
"Fatty liver leads to high cholesterol and insulin resistance," Braverman said. "It makes you vulnerable to hepatitis and feeds cancer. And it causes heart disease." He wasn't finished. "Most people who have two drinks a night always have fatty liver," he said.
Two drinks? I'd call that an aperitif!
Before I could plot an escape, Braverman led me to a small room where a technician instructed me to lie on a gurney and pull up my shirt. She then swabbed cold gel onto my abdomen and glided a small box across my skin. She and Braverman studied a nearby laptop with intent. And then from the white snow on the screen came this news bulletin: My liver was 65 years old.
