My Father's Battle with Fatty Liver Disease

I still remember the day my father sat me down to tell me about his diagnosis. I was only 15, and to me, he seemed invincible. He was always the strong one, the provider, the man who never showed weakness. But that day, I saw something I’d never seen in him before—fear. My dad was diagnosed with non-alcoholic fatty liver disease (NAFLD), and though the doctors had caught it early, they warned us about the risks of progression. None of us realized how serious it would become.

"I didn’t understand at the time that this disease would slowly steal him from me."

My dad, Michael, wasn’t a heavy drinker, and he didn’t have a family history of liver problems, so the diagnosis took us all by surprise. But looking back, the signs were there—his weight gain, his unhealthy diet, the fatigue that he always brushed off as just being overworked. At 51, the disease had already progressed into a more severe form known as metabolic dysfunction-associated steatohepatitis (MASH), which led to cirrhosis.

For years, we watched him fight. He tried to make changes to his lifestyle, but by the time he started taking his health seriously, it was too late. The damage had been done. He was in and out of the hospital, dealing with complications like encephalopathy, where toxins in his blood affected his brain. There were days when he didn’t even recognize me. Seeing my dad like that was unbearable.

"Watching my father fade away was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do."

As a teenager, it was difficult to process everything that was happening. I didn’t fully understand the severity of his illness, and I kept hoping that the next treatment, the next doctor’s visit, would somehow make him better. But that day never came. My father’s health continued to decline, and the hospital stays grew longer and more frequent. Eventually, he needed a liver transplant, but by then, his body was too weak to handle the surgery.

I was only 17 when he passed away. The moment I lost him felt like my world crumbled. My mother, who had been holding everything together, was left to pick up the pieces. She had spent years commuting back and forth between our home and the hospital, fighting alongside him. Now, it was just the two of us, and I could see the exhaustion in her eyes. We were both broken.

"I never imagined losing him so young, and I wasn’t prepared for the void his absence left in my life."

I was angry. Angry at the disease, angry at my dad for not taking care of himself sooner, and angry at myself for not being able to do more. But as time passed, that anger turned into something else—regret. I regretted all the moments we missed, all the times I didn’t appreciate his presence because I thought he’d always be there.

It’s been years since he died, but the pain of losing him never fully goes away. Fatty liver disease may not be as well-known as some other illnesses, but it’s devastating, especially when it sneaks up on you like it did for my dad. I’ve since learned that NAFLD is the most common cause of chronic liver disease in the U.S., and that many people, like my dad, don’t even realize they have it until it’s too late.

"If I had one message for anyone reading this, it would be to take your health seriously—before it’s too late."

I’ve made changes in my own life to make sure I don’t go down the same path. I was diagnosed with fatty liver disease at 18, but unlike my dad, I’ve committed to doing everything I can to manage it. I exercise regularly, eat a healthy diet, and make sure to get checkups to monitor my liver health. It’s a constant battle, but I owe it to myself and to my future family to not let this disease claim me the way it did my father.

My father’s death has taught me so many things. It taught me the importance of being proactive about your health and how crucial it is to have support around you when you’re facing something as serious as a chronic illness. I wish I could go back and change things for him, but the best I can do now is to share our story in the hope that it helps someone else make the changes my dad didn’t make in time.