I always felt invincible but now I'm middle-aged and vulnerable, says Laurence Fox

The first I knew that there was a problem came when I awoke the next morning to go for a pee and I noticed a combination of pins and needles and lack of sensation in my left thumb. I thought nothing of it. We’ve all had those moments when you sleep in a peculiar way and wake up with various numb arms and cricked necks.

So I dusted myself off and got in with my day job of running a fledgling political party and getting complained about on GB News.

By lunchtime however the numbness, rather than dissipating, had a snaked up my arm and whilst it was mostly just numb, parts of my arm would feel like someone was holding a blow torch to it.

The slightest breeze would feel like the bits of my arm I could still feel were absolutely 100% on fire. Being a bloke, I did what all blokes do and ignored it for several days.

But the pain got worse and worse and eventually I found myself sat in front of my doc in absolute agony, unable to think of anything else.

Chronic pain is an immensely powerful thing. You can think of literally nothing else. Let me say at this juncture that there is and never will be any limit to the deep sympathy I have for those who live with chronic pain. I had eight weeks of it and I shall never ever forget that torrid time.

My doc referred me to surgeon who sent me off for an MRI and once the results were back I was informed that the disc between something called C5 and C6 was very unhappy and that the nerve which feeds the left arm with feeling was restricted in its movement and inflamed and the only thing shy of an operation that might help was some injections worrying lot close to my spinal cord. Oh, the joy.

So off I trundled to a lovely man with an X-ray and he injected steroids into my neck to try and calm the angry bastard nerve.

Thinking the immortal Loz was now much better (that was the nerve blocker talking) I hopped in the car with some industrial strength pain killers and drove down to Cornwall for a jolly.

This is where things started to get really bad. I must confess at this point that I am partial to a painkiller or two hundred, given half the chance, so when I awoke in even more pain than I was before at 2 am the next morning, the painkillers I had avoided taking because they made me feel a bit weird, were guzzled down and I drifted back off to sleep.

An hour or so later as the first light of day was seeping into the room, I awoke with a jolt. The pain killer had kicked in alright, but not quite in the woozy, happy dreamy, way I had expected. I felt like I had consumed a kilo of pure caffeine.

WATCH: Laurence Fox on the 'hell' of chronic pain

Jaw clenched and fidgeting like mad, I proceeded to try and work out how to cope with this new and unpleasant experience.

To cut a long story short, by 5:30 am I was tapping my feet uncontrollably outside the breakfast room, having cleaned my room from top to bottom as well as the inside of the car. Lesson learned. Tramadol and me do not mix.

I took the train back to London that day. Back in the surgeon's office to be given two choices. An anterior something or other (not good with names) which meant slicing through the front of my neck, trying to avoid the nerves responsible for swallowing and speaking to mend the issue.

Or a posterior something or other, which was through the back, but meant a longer recovery, as it turns out rather unfortunately that those muscles on the back of your neck are required to keep your 5kg head on.

Through the back it was and on Friday last week I drifted off in a chilly operating theatre to wake up a couple of hours later with all feeling restored to my left arm immediately. What a miracle!

The extra bonus was a four hourly syringe full of something called Oromorph. I miss you already Oromorph, dear friend! The spoil sports at the hospital don’t let you take it home with you. Party poopers.

So here I am. Mended, but also mending. I have taken the first steps through the door of middle age and that has come as quite a shock, if I am honest.

I felt invincible. I have had motorbike crashes on race tracks and in the Sahara. I’ve got to the bottom of mogul fields minus my skis and with shoulders in places they don’t belong and until right now, I would jump of the highest rocks on my favourite Greek island and dive to the deepest I could.

All of that has changed. I feel mortal. I feel vulnerable. I am no longer young in the way I was before. There is a little tragedy for that in me.

But as a woman who doesn’t take any of my rubbish tells me. “You are a stubborn sod. Why don’t you use some of that stubbornness for good.”

So I have taken her advice. It’s been six days since I had a cigarette or a glass of plonk and I do feel better for it.

I am going to try and kick the dastardly tobacco for good. God knows if I will succeed, but every doctor I have met on this journey has said the same thing: Your liver is fine, but those smokes will definitely kill you, and I do, now that I am officially old, want to see grandchildren and other things.

I also leave with a piece of knowledge which can help others.

My blood type is O negative. Rare apparently, the doc says. A universal donor.

So once I have finished mourning my youth, I’m going to get over my dislike of needles and start donating blood to those who need it urgently.