My Battle with Fatty Liver and Cirrhosis

Four years ago, my life began to change in ways I never anticipated. At first, it was subtle. I felt cold all the time, no matter the weather, and I was tired—always tired. Sleep became a rare commodity, and as a diabetic, I chalked it up to my worsening type 2 diabetes. But something deeper was wrong, and I was about to find out just how serious it was.

My journey into the world of liver disease started with a series of tests and scans. After months of doctors focusing on my diabetes and weight, a FibroScan finally revealed the grim truth: my liver was cirrhotic. The news hit me like a freight train. The condition was irreversible. My liver was failing, and there was no going back.

"Hearing the word 'cirrhosis' felt like a death sentence."

The thing about liver disease is that it doesn’t just affect you physically—it crushes you emotionally. It’s not just my liver journey, it’s my family’s too. My wife, my kids, they all suffered in their own way. People hear about liver disease and often think of alcohol, of celebrities, but there are so many of us fighting this invisible battle due to non-alcoholic fatty liver disease (NAFLD).

I knew I had to do something, anything to stop the progression. I overhauled my diet and dropped a significant amount of weight. I even started an exercise routine, determined to give myself the best chance at survival. But it was already too late. The disease had progressed beyond what lifestyle changes could fix.

"My skin turned yellow, and my mind was slipping away."

It wasn’t long before jaundice set in. My skin turned a sickly shade of yellow, and worse, I began experiencing hepatic encephalopathy—my brain was being affected. I couldn’t think clearly, I would forget simple things, and I felt like a stranger in my own body. Ascites followed, causing my abdomen to swell with fluid. Doctors had to drain the fluid from me more frequently as my liver continued to deteriorate.

I spent more time in the hospital than at home. Each visit, I felt weaker, more hopeless. The doctors told me my liver was decompensating—shutting down piece by piece. It was at this point that they referred me to the transplant unit. I knew what that meant: without a new liver, I wouldn’t survive much longer.

"I received 'the call' that could save my life."

I was lucky. Exceptionally lucky. In the early hours of a December morning, my phone rang. A liver was available. In a daze, I packed my bags and was rushed to the hospital. The surgery was long—hours that felt like a lifetime—but when I woke up, I was still here. I had made it through. My life had been saved.

The recovery, though, was another battle in itself. It wasn’t just about surviving the surgery. It was about adjusting to a new life, one in which every day was a gift. My body was weak, and I faced more complications—procedures to address the lingering effects of cirrhosis and my weakened immune system. But I fought through it all because I owed it to myself and to the donor who had given me this second chance.

"I often think of the person who saved my life."

A year after my transplant, I wrote an anonymous letter to my donor’s family. How do you thank someone for giving you their liver? For saving your life? It was one of the hardest letters I’ve ever written, and I still think of them often. Without them, I wouldn’t be here today, sharing my story.

Now, years later, I’m still on the road to recovery. It’s not easy, and I still deal with complications from my condition, but I have the best team of doctors by my side. The Transplant Center at Massachusetts General Hospital saved me, and I will forever be grateful to them. I know my journey isn’t over, but at least now, I have a future to look forward to.