That day I went to the hospital to pick up my report. The elevator was packed with people, and I was sandwiched in the middle, my stomach pressed against the back of a little girl with a backpack in front of me, as hard as a brick. I looked down and saw that my stomach was bulging like I was five months pregnant, and I suddenly realized: this wasn't a beer belly, this was a death sentence.
When the nurse handed me the report, her professional smile held a hint of pity. I glanced at it; in the liver function section, the words "moderate fatty liver" were circled tightly in red, like the final seal on a coffin. The doctor swiped the ultrasound image onto the lightbox, pointed to the gleaming white area, and said in a calm tone, as if discussing tomorrow's weather: "Look, your liver is like a sponge soaked in lard for ten years, half of it is fat. If you don't control it, you'll need a stainless steel one in three years."
At that moment, I only had one thought in my mind: I'm doomed, I'm already booked for the ICU at forty.
The day I left the hospital was the coldest day in Beijing, -12 degrees Celsius, the wind like knives piercing my neck. Yet, I was drenched in sweat—hot sweat, cold sweat, sweat of exhaustion, sweat of regret, all mixed together. On the subway, I stood, gripping the handrail, and for the first time, I noticed the flesh on my arms jiggling like jelly. My WeChat Moments were still filled with people showing off the iPhone 16 they won at the company's year-end party, but I was searching for "Will fatty liver die if left untreated?" Seeing someone report being diagnosed with late-stage liver cancer at fifty, I almost smashed my phone in frustration.
On my way home, I did some calculations for myself: over the past twelve years, the amount of liquor I've consumed could probably fill three tanker trucks, the amount of barbecue I've eaten could cover five acres of land, and the total number of nights I've stayed up could fly from Beijing to the moon and back twice. After doing this, I felt like I wasn't human anymore, but a mobile garbage disposal center.
That night I did five things. First, I moved all thirty-one bottles of wine from the wine cabinet to the hallway, even the 1996 Margaux that someone had given me. When a neighbor asked if I was moving, I said yes, I was moving to survive. Second, I packed up all the beef rolls, cream cakes, snail rice noodles, and Lay's unlimited snacks from the refrigerator and threw them into the downstairs garbage room. The security guard was rubbing his hands together with delight; he probably got his New Year's gifts that night. Third, I dug the scale out of the bathroom cabinet; it was covered in dust like an archaeological site, and the number was frozen at 96.8, like a coffin lid had been nailed to my head. Fourth, I uninstalled all food delivery apps, leaving only Keep, Mint Health, and Mi Fit on my phone's home screen. Fifth, I made a solemn vow to myself: lose weight to 75 pounds within six months, and if the checkup showed anything abnormal, I would livestream myself eating a keyboard.
During my first week of abstaining from alcohol, I almost died on the spot. At 11 pm, someone in the WeChat group posted a picture of a newly opened 15-year-old Feitian Moutai. I stared at that picture, swallowing so hard my throat bled. My wife, seeing that I looked like I was going through drug withdrawal, secretly poured half a bottle of balsamic vinegar into my glass, saying that drinking this would satisfy my craving. I chugged it down, and the sourness brought tears and snot to my eyes, but I inexplicably laughed: so this is what abstaining from alcohol feels like, like having your soul soaked in a jar of sauerkraut for three years.
Starting to exercise was worse than being in jail. I signed up for the most expensive personal trainer, 19,000 yuan a month. The trainer was a tough 26-year-old. On the first day, he made me do burpees. I did four and collapsed on the ground, feeling like my heart was going to jump out of my throat. He squatted down and asked me, "Uncle, how do you usually exercise?" I said, "Does playing video games count?" He was trying so hard not to laugh that his shoulders were shaking, and he said, "That counts as static aerobic exercise." I really wanted to dig a hole and bury myself right then and there.
On my first day of running, I sat down on the side of the road to catch my breath after running 800 meters in Olympic Forest Park. A middle-aged woman pushing a stroller overtook me twice and even turned around to encourage me: "Young man, keep going, take it slow!" I forced myself to get up, cursing my ancestors in my mind: You're forty years old and you can't even outrun a middle-aged woman walking her grandchild, how dare you be alive?
Dietary reform is a true living hell. Breakfast changed from two beef patties with eggs to a bowl of unsweetened oatmeal with a whole egg and 300 grams of vegetables—so green they looked like a patch of grass I'd just eaten. Lunch consisted of eight chicken breasts, 200 grams of broccoli, and half a bowl of brown rice. Dinner was a carton of unsweetened yogurt, an apple, and ten nuts. My friends, seeing my daily boiled meals on social media, collectively nicknamed me "Old Wang the Herbivore Dragon." Someone messaged me asking if I'd been kidnapped, and I replied: Yes, kidnapped by my health.
Social engagements were the ultimate battleground. During that period, I turned down 80% of the dinner invitations, and for the rest, I only drank sparkling water. Once, at a dinner party, my boss personally offered me three glasses of Moutai, but I picked up a glass of plain water and said my doctor wouldn't let me drink it. My boss's face darkened immediately: "You're not even giving me face?" I smiled and replied, "Boss, I don't even care about my own life, how could I care about face?" After that dinner, my boss never asked me to drink again, but I managed to save my liver.
In the second month, I started losing hair, not just normally, but in clumps. When I washed my hair, I'd grab handfuls, it was as black as rain. I was terrified and went to a dermatologist. The doctor said it was a stress reaction from dieting and would get better in a couple of months. I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time, then suddenly burst into laughter through my tears: Let it fall, it falls, I was planning to shave my head and start a new life anyway.
One day in the third month, I noticed I was missing three holes in my belt. My old-fashioned dress pants slid right down to my knees. I stood shirtless in front of the mirror and realized I could count my ribs one by one. My philtrum had lengthened, my chin was sharper, and my eyes were as bright as if I'd just gotten out of being single. At that moment, I suddenly understood why those fitness bloggers always post before-and-after photos: it's not about showing off; it's that they genuinely look like they've died and come back to life.
In the fourth month, I ran 10 kilometers for the first time, without walking the entire way. The moment I crossed the finish line, I squatted on the ground and cried, like a fool. A little girl from a running group next to me handed me a tissue and said, "Uncle, you're amazing!" I wiped my face and thought to myself: Girl, you don't know, I'm not amazing, I just crawled out of a coffin.
I arrived an hour early for my follow-up appointment. The nurse pricked four times before finding a vein, saying my veins were too thin. I was overjoyed: thinner veins meant less fat. When I received the report, my hands trembled so much I could barely hold it. My fatty liver had gone from moderate to mild, then from mild to "basically normal," my blood lipids had gone from severely elevated to slightly elevated, and my liver enzymes had dropped from over 100 to the thirties. The doctor pasted both reports side-by-side on a lightbox and asked me what magic pill I had taken. I said eight words: "Control your diet and exercise."
Six months later, I had lost 21.2 kilograms, from 96.8 to 75.6 kilograms, and my body fat percentage had dropped from 33% to 14.8%. The follow-up report said in big letters in the liver section: "No abnormalities found." I burst into tears in the hospital corridor, crying so hard that the security guard thought I had lost my child.
Now I wake up at 5:20 every morning, run 12 kilometers on an empty stomach, and then go to the gym to lift weights for two and a half hours. I can squat twice my body weight, bench press 120 pounds, and do 20 pull-ups without getting out of breath. My social media posts have changed from pictures of drinking parties and gourmet food to abs, running routes, and boiled meals. Some people laugh at me, saying I'm possessed, while others quietly message me asking how I did it. My uniform reply is: If you're afraid of dying, learn from me.
I used the money I used to spend on alcohol, watches, and luxury goods to buy carbon fiber running shoes, strength training equipment, and avocado and olive oil. My wife said I was like a different person, and I said yes, I was a different person, from an overweight man who could suddenly die at any moment to a man who could still fight for another forty years.
Fatty liver disease is painless and asymptomatic, yet it can quietly destroy you when you're at your most successful. It's like the most expensive alarm clock God sends when you turn forty—it rings shrilly, but it pulls you back from the brink of disaster.
Turning forty isn't the end; it's a forced system reboot. All those junk software, viruses, Trojans, and malicious plugins you installed before have to be uninstalled. You'll feel pain, cry, break down, lose hair, and even want to die, but if you get through that day, you'll find the new system is damn smooth, the battery life is tripled, and even the boot screen is so cool it makes you want to fall in love.
Thank you, fatty liver. Thank you for coming so ruthlessly and precisely, turning me from a greasy, middle-aged loser into a sports car that can still speed for a hundred years. In the second half, I want to drive this car, with my wife and kids, until my medical reports always say "no abnormalities found," until doctors say I look like I'm in my early thirties, until my grandson gets married and I can still be running around holding my great-grandson.