That day I went to the hospital to get my report. The elevator was packed, and I was squeezed in the middle, my belly pressed against the back of a little girl in front of me, as hard as a brick. I looked down and saw my belly bulging as if I were five months pregnant, and suddenly realized: this isn’t a beer belly, it’s a death notice.
When the nurse handed me the report, her professional smile carried a hint of pity. I glanced at it, and in the liver function section, the words “moderate fatty liver” were circled in red, like the final seal on a coffin. The doctor placed the ultrasound images on the light box, pointed at the white area, and spoke in a calm tone as if discussing tomorrow's weather: “Look, your liver now looks like a sponge soaked in pig fat for ten years, with fat occupying half of it. If you don’t control it, in three years you’ll need a stainless steel one.”
At that moment, I had only one thought in my mind: it’s over, I’ve booked an ICU at forty.
The day I left the hospital was the coldest day in Beijing, minus twelve degrees, with the wind cutting into my neck like a knife. Yet I was sweating, hot sweat, cold sweat, anxious sweat, and regretful sweat, all mixed together. On the subway, I stood holding the handrail, and for the first time noticed the flesh on my arms shaking like jelly. My phone was still buzzing with friends posting about winning an iPhone 16 at the annual meeting, while I was searching “will fatty liver kill me if untreated.” Seeing someone diagnosed with late-stage liver cancer at fifty, I almost smashed my phone.
On the way home, I calculated a sum for myself: over the past twelve years, the liquor I drank could fill three fuel tankers, the barbecues I ate could cover five acres, and the hours I stayed up could fly me to the moon and back twice. After doing the math, I felt like I wasn’t human, but a mobile garbage disposal center.
That night I did five things. First, I moved all thirty-one bottles of liquor from the cabinet to the hallway, not even leaving the 1996 Margaux someone gifted me. When a neighbor passed by and asked if I was moving, I said yes, moving to save my life. Second, I packed up the fatty beef rolls, cream cakes, snail noodles, and unlimited Lays from the fridge and threw them into the downstairs trash room. The security guard was so happy he probably got his New Year’s goods that night. Third, I dug out the scale from the bathroom cabinet, which was covered in dust like an archaeological site, and the number froze at 96.8, like a coffin lid nailed down. Fourth, I uninstalled all food delivery apps, leaving only Keep, Mint Health, and Xiaomi Sports on my phone’s home screen. Fifth, I made a military order to myself: lose to 75 within six months, and if the recheck isn’t normal, I’ll live stream eating my keyboard.
During the first week of quitting alcohol, I almost died on the spot. At eleven at night, someone in the WeChat group posted about just opening a fifteen-year-old Moutai, and I stared at that picture, swallowing so hard I almost bled from my throat. My wife saw me looking like I was going through withdrawal and secretly poured half a bottle of balsamic vinegar into my cup, saying it could satisfy my cravings. I downed it in one go, and it was so sour that tears and snot flew, yet I inexplicably laughed: so this is what quitting alcohol feels like, like having my soul soaked in a pickled cabbage jar for three years.
Starting to exercise was worse than being in prison. I signed up for the most expensive personal trainer, 19,000 a month, and the coach was a tough twenty-six-year-old. On the first day, he had me do burpees, and I collapsed after four, feeling like my heart was about to burst out of my throat. He squatted down and asked me, “Uncle, how do you usually exercise?” I said, does gaming count? He stifled a laugh until his shoulders shook, saying that counts as static aerobic exercise. At that moment, I really wanted to dig a hole and bury myself.
On the first day of running, I sat by the road after running eight hundred meters in Aosen, and a lady pushing a stroller passed me twice, turning back to encourage me: “Come on, young man, take it slow!” I gritted my teeth and got up, cursing my ancestors: you’re forty years old, and you can’t even outrun a grandma walking her grandchild, how can you still have the face to live?
Diet transformation was a true hell on earth. Breakfast changed from two beef patties with an egg to a bowl of unsweetened oatmeal with one whole egg and three hundred grams of vegetables, green as if I were directly gnawing on a lawn. Lunch was eight pieces of chicken breast with two hundred grams of broccoli and half a bowl of brown rice, and dinner was a box of unsweetened yogurt, an apple, and ten nuts. Friends saw me posting boiled meals every day on social media and collectively nicknamed me “Old Wang the Herbivore Dragon.” Someone privately messaged me asking if I was kidnapped, and I replied: yes, I’ve been kidnapped by health.
Socializing was the biggest battlefield. During that time, I turned down eighty percent of dinner invitations, and at the remaining ones, I only drank sparkling water. At one gathering, the boss personally poured me three cups of Moutai, and I raised my glass of plain water, saying the doctor wouldn’t let me drink. The boss turned dark: “Are you not giving me face?” I smiled and replied: “Boss, I don’t even want my own life, how can I dare to care about face?” After that meal, the boss never asked me to drink again, but I saved my liver.
In the second month, I started losing hair, not normally, but in clumps. When I washed my hair, I grabbed a handful, and it was as dark as if it were raining. I was so scared I called a dermatologist, and the doctor said it was a stress response from losing fat, and it would be fine in a couple of months. I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time, suddenly breaking into a smile: let it fall, let it fall, I originally planned to shave my head and restart my life anyway.
One day in the third month, I found I had missed three belt holes while fastening my belt. My old trousers slid straight down from my waist to my knees. Standing in front of the mirror shirtless, I could count my ribs, my philtrum had grown, my chin was sharper, and my eyes were bright as if I had just gotten out of a relationship. At that moment, I suddenly understood why those fitness bloggers always post before-and-after comparisons: it’s not showing off, it’s truly like having died once and come back to life.
In the fourth month, I completed a ten-kilometer run for the first time without walking. At the finish line, I squatted on the ground and cried like a fool. A girl from a running group handed me a tissue, saying, “Uncle, you’re amazing!” I wiped my face and thought: girl, you don’t know, I’m not amazing, I just crawled out of a coffin.
On the day of the recheck, I arrived an hour early. When they drew my blood, the nurse had to poke me four times to find a vein, saying my veins were too thin. I was overjoyed inside: thin is good, it means less fat. At the moment I got the report, my hands were shaking so much I could barely hold it. The fatty liver changed from moderate to mild, then from mild to “basically normal,” blood lipids went from severely elevated to normal high, and liver enzymes dropped from over a hundred to the thirties. The doctor placed the two reports side by side on the light box and asked me what kind of elixir I had taken. I said eight words: control your mouth, move your legs.
Six months later, I lost 21.2 kilograms, from 96.8 to 75.6, and my body fat dropped from 33% to 14.8%. The liver section of the recheck report read four big words: no abnormalities found. I cried loudly in the hospital corridor, making the security guard think I had lost a child.
Now I wake up every day at five twenty, first running twelve kilometers on an empty stomach, then going to the gym to lift weights for two and a half hours. I can squat double my body weight, bench press one hundred and twenty, and do twenty pull-ups without gasping. My social media has transformed from posts about drinking and food to abs, running tracks, and boiled meals. Some people joke that I’m possessed, while others quietly message me asking how I did it. I reply uniformly: if you’re afraid of dying, learn from me.
I took all the money I used to spend on alcohol, watches, and luxury goods and spent it on carbon plate running shoes, strength equipment, and avocado olive oil. My wife said I seemed like a different person, and I said yes, I have become a different person, from a fat guy who could die at any moment to a man who can still fight for another forty years.
Fatty liver, it doesn’t hurt or itch, but it can quietly take you out when you’re at your most proud. It’s the most expensive alarm clock sent by heaven when you turn forty, ringing harshly but pulling you back from the edge of the cliff.
Forty is not the end; it’s a forced system reboot. All the junk software, viruses, trojans, and rogue plugins you used to have must be uninstalled. You will hurt, cry, collapse, lose hair, and think about dying, but when you get through that day, you will find the new system runs so smoothly, with triple the battery life, and even the startup screen is so handsome it makes you want to fall in love.
Thank you, fatty liver. Thank you for coming so fiercely and accurately, turning me from a greasy middle-aged waste into a sports car that can still speed to a hundred. In the second half, I want to drive this car, carrying my wife and children, to a place where the health check report always says “no abnormalities found,” where doctors say I look like I’m in my thirties, and where I can still run around with my great-grandson at my grandson’s wedding.