The Silent Killer Inside Me - My Battle with Fatty Liver Disease

It was 1985 when the doctor first mentioned it—fatty liver disease. A routine physical exam revealed abnormal liver numbers, and from there, things escalated. A liver biopsy soon followed, and I found myself consulting specialists at U.C. San Francisco. But here’s the kicker: nothing significant was ever advised. No real action plan, no urgent warnings—just a suggestion to lose some weight. And like a fool, I accepted it as my reality. I lived in a blissful state of ignorance for years, thinking everything was under control. Now, at 79 years old, I realize how wrong I was.

My father’s story should have been a wake-up call for me. In 1961, during an emergency gallbladder surgery, it was revealed that his liver was cirrhotic. For over a decade, he showed no signs of complications, until 1974, when he experienced internal bleeding. Rushed to the hospital, he underwent eleven hours of surgery. It was the first of three grueling operations over the next few years. I stood by him through it all, watching as this once-strong man deteriorated. He passed away in 1981 at the age of 61, far too young. Yet, despite witnessing his suffering, I somehow convinced myself that I wouldn’t end up the same way.

“Fatty liver disease is a silent killer, lurking in the shadows.”

By 2005, I had a diagnosis that shook me to my core: NASH—Nonalcoholic Steatohepatitis, a severe form of fatty liver disease. But you know what’s worse? I didn’t care. Or at least, I didn’t care enough. I was raised to respect doctors, to trust their decisions without question. So, when my doctor—a kind, friendly man who I believed genuinely cared—told me to simply lose weight and exercise, I accepted it without much thought. No urgency. No panic. Just apathy.

And that apathy nearly killed me.

I’ve been a member of Kaiser Permanente since 2005. For years, I trusted their system blindly. I did what they told me, but I never asked enough questions. I should have demanded more, but I didn’t. It took me eleven long years to realize how passive I had become about my own health. Last year, I requested over 1,500 pages of my medical records, determined to sift through every detail and make sense of my liver's condition. What I found left me speechless.

“I had two ultrasounds—years apart—and never even asked for the results.”

Two ultrasounds. One in 2009, the other in 2016. Not once did I follow up. Not once did I push for answers. I didn’t ask questions until recently, and now I’m left wondering how many crucial details I’ve missed because of my blind trust in the system.

A few months ago, I sent an email to my doctor, asking a simple question: “What stage of NASH am I in?” The reply I received was chilling. “We really don’t know what stage you are,” the email read. How is that possible? How can they not know? After years of tests and visits, they still couldn’t give me a clear answer.

“Maybe I should be angry, but I’m just sad.”

I’ve spent the last few days grappling with that response. Part of me wants to scream in frustration, to demand answers, to hold someone accountable. But mostly, I’m just disappointed. Disappointed in myself for not pushing harder, disappointed in the system for failing to treat this disease with the seriousness it deserves. But I’m not giving up.

I’ve come to realize that fatty liver disease isn’t just a problem for me—it’s an epidemic. Kaiser Permanente denied my requests for help with weight loss for years. My BMI fluctuated between 32 and 34, but they wouldn’t offer any bariatric interventions unless my BMI hit 40. Even at 35, where other conditions like diabetes or heart disease would qualify someone for treatment, NASH wasn’t considered enough of a threat.

“I am the polite elephant knocking at their door, but I won’t wait forever.”

It’s infuriating. Managed healthcare is a well-oiled machine, designed to minimize costs at the expense of patients like me. And I’m done being patient. I refuse to let them ignore me any longer. I’ve asked for more tests—more bloodwork, another ultrasound—but I know deep down that this fight is far from over.

This disease has taken so much from me, but it won’t take my life without a fight. I’m not the kind of man to sit back and wait for things to fall apart. I may be 79, but I still have plenty of fight left in me. I only hope that others in my position find the courage to demand the care they deserve. Don’t be like me. Don’t wait until it’s too late.