My Journey with Fatty Liver - From Diagnosis to Rediscovering Life

Five years ago, I would have never imagined I'd be sitting here, writing about my battle with non-alcoholic fatty liver disease (NAFLD). I was 47, working long hours as an engineer, living off processed meals, and rarely finding the time to exercise. My body started to slow down, but I wrote it off as part of getting older. I had no idea that underneath it all, my liver was suffering.

"I was misdiagnosed for years before they discovered my liver was failing."

At first, the doctors thought it was asthma causing my shortness of breath. I had never thought my liver could be the culprit. I wasn’t a drinker, after all. But my condition continued to deteriorate until one day I swelled up with fluid, something called ascites. That was the turning point. After countless tests and misdiagnoses, I was finally told I had NAFLD. To say I was shocked would be an understatement. I’d never even heard of this disease, and now it was destroying my liver.

"I was on the verge of losing hope when they finally put me on the transplant list."

The worst part was when the diuretics—medication to reduce the fluid buildup—stopped working. I was in and out of the hospital, getting the fluid drained weekly. That’s when they told me my NAFLD had progressed to liver cirrhosis. I had no choice but to face the reality that I needed a liver transplant. The scariest day of my life was when they almost took me off the transplant list because my kidneys were starting to fail. It was like a ticking clock, and I wasn’t sure if I’d make it in time.

"The call came just in time, and it saved my life."

Then, one evening, when I was almost ready to give up, I got the call: there was a liver available. It was like being pulled back from the edge. The transplant happened the next day, and though the recovery was rough—three months in the hospital, struggling with pain and complications—it was nothing compared to what could have been. I owe my life to that moment.

"I didn't realize how much my illness affected my family until it was almost too late."

Throughout all of this, my daughters were my rock. One of them took six months off work to care for me, while the other had to leave her job for three months. I could see the strain it put on them, and I felt like a burden. They never complained, but the toll on our family was enormous. Looking back, I wish I had known about support groups sooner. I realized that my daughters needed just as much support as I did. They had been carrying the weight of my illness for so long.

"Joining a support group changed my outlook on life."

I’ll be honest—I didn’t want to go to a support group. I didn’t want to sit in a room full of strangers and talk about my health. But my daughters insisted, and they were right. Meeting others who had been through what I had gave me a sense of community and hope. There was one guy in particular, Bertan, who had been through more surgeries and setbacks than I could count. His resilience inspired me. If he could keep fighting, so could I.

Today, my life is vastly different. I walk ten miles a day, which is something I never would’ve thought possible. I’ve joined a rambling group, and we explore the beautiful countryside around our town. I’ve learned to appreciate the small things, like the view from the top of a hill or the sound of the wind through the trees. I still have to watch my diet and make sure I stay active, but it's worth it. My transplant wasn’t just a second chance—it was a wake-up call.