How I Ignored My Liver Until It Nearly Killed Me

I never thought something as "harmless" as fatty liver could ruin my life. I’m 45, and just a few months ago, I thought I was healthy, or at least nothing was seriously wrong. Boy, was I wrong. My story is one of denial, misdiagnosis, and almost losing everything because I didn’t take my liver seriously.

“I didn’t feel sick at first—it was just fatigue, right?”

It started a few years back, just after I turned 40. I was always tired, but I chalked it up to age. Everyone’s tired when they hit their forties, right? A couple of doctor visits here and there, and they always said the same thing: "You’ve got a fatty liver. Lose some weight." But I wasn’t overweight. I’m no fitness model, but I was only about 10 or 15 pounds heavier than I should have been. So, I didn’t take it seriously.

“Then came the day I couldn’t ignore it anymore.”

One morning, I woke up with excruciating pain under my right rib cage. It was sharp, like a knife. I assumed it was my gallbladder and ended up in the ER. After some tests, they told me my gallbladder was fine, but my liver wasn’t. They said I had NASH—Nonalcoholic Steatohepatitis. It’s like fatty liver’s evil twin. That’s when the word "cirrhosis" came up for the first time.

“Blood. I was throwing up blood.”

Then it got worse. I remember the night so clearly—October 3, 2022. I woke up feeling nauseous. Out of nowhere, I started vomiting blood. My wife rushed me to the hospital, and that’s when they found varices in my upper GI. My liver was so scarred that blood couldn’t flow through it properly, causing these veins to swell and burst. They had to band them off to stop the bleeding, but that’s when the doctors finally dropped the bomb: my liver was failing.

“The doctors told me to ‘prepare for the worst.’”

It’s terrifying when the experts say those words. They weren’t even sure how much longer I had. I lost almost 10 kilograms in two months, and the nausea wouldn’t go away. They were monitoring my sugar levels, but my liver was the real problem. I tried to stay positive, but every test, every scan just added to the grim reality.

I had trusted doctors for years to guide me, but now I realize they didn’t take my condition seriously enough, and I didn’t push them hard enough. I should’ve been more proactive. I should’ve asked more questions. Now, I’m paying the price.

“I’m scared of what’s coming next.”

I’m scared. Every day I wonder how much time I have left. I have an ultrasound scheduled soon, and I’m praying the damage isn’t as bad as they think. But I don’t know. All I can do is hope and try to slow down the disease with what little power I have left. But that nagging question keeps haunting me—what if I had acted sooner? What if I hadn’t ignored the signs?