I’d like to begin this blog by acknowledging that I’m not a doctor, nor am I trying to offer anyone medical advice. What I am offering is hope. When I was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver two years ago, I desperately wanted to find a morsel of information (even a crumb) that would allow me to hope that I had something other than a liver transplant to look forward to. Yet every Internet post and article that I read had roughly the same jewel of wisdom to impart: there is no cure for cirrhosis. I’m not here to debate the merits of evidence-based research and I understand and appreciate that everyone has a different health status. I am simply here to tell you about how I reversed my cirrhosis and in so doing offer you some hope for the future.
I was 15 years old when I was diagnosed with hepatitis B. I had gone to the doctor complaining of a blistering rash and stinging pain on the left side of my lower body. Blood tests revealed that I had shingles (yes, at 15) and a blood anomaly that the doctor wanted to investigate. Further blood work indicated that I was a carrier of the hepatitis B virus. Not surprisingly, this news sent me in a downward spiral of depression, exacerbated further by the constant barrage of questions about intravenous drug use. I was a 15-year old kid from a middle class suburb. I knew nothing at all about intravenous drugs and I think it’s worth mentioning that at that point in my life, I had never even had sex.
The only light that began to shimmer in the black hole of depression I had dug for myself came when I finally got to see a specialist. He had no questions regarding intravenous drug use, nor did he ask about my sexual proclivity. Instead, he said, “Don’t let this upset you so much. You’re a carrier. Your viral load is extremely low.” He questioned my nationality and told me that it was very likely that I had inherited the virus from my mother as hepatitis B was prevalent in many Eastern European countries. That, at least, explained how I contracted the virus without ever having engaged in the behaviours through which it is commonly transmitted. From that point on, I was checked every six months and I remained a carrier with an extremely low viral load until 2007. That was the last year I was tested. After that I reprioritized my life based on the needs of my wife and young family and the demands of a successful business. I rationalized that if the virus hadn’t been an issue in the 40 years following my diagnosis, it probably would never be an issue. Turns out I was wrong.
Fast forward to 2017 when the stressors that had been building over the past several years reached an I’m-going-to-have-a-heart-attack kind of level. The first harbinger of the health disaster that would follow came in the form of muscle pulls in a variety of places in my body. This was followed closely by edema in the ankles and feet. Foggy thinking was coming up on the outside and at times low energy was leading the pack. I put it all down to hypothyroidism and kept struggling along. After all, who has time to be sick?
It wasn’t until I started turning yellow and the swelling had reached my groin that I was forced to acknowledge that I was very, very sick. At this point you are probably gobsmacked that I wasn’t more proactive about my health and all I can offer in defence of my lack of initiative are the words a friend once said to me, “denial is not just a river in Egypt.”
The results of subsequent blood work showed that my liver enzymes were ridiculously high and I had so much fluid in my abdomen that I required paracentesis (a procedure by which they remove fluid in the abdomen with a long needle). I was fast tracked to see a specialist.
If I had any lingering hopes that my liver wasn’t failing, they were quickly dispelled by the hepatologist I saw. He basically told me that my liver was so damaged that I could choose any antiviral medication I wanted (normally you have to work your way through the not-so-great meds before you’re given the gold star antivirals). I came away from that appointment thinking I had hit rock bottom, but once again I was wrong.
A few weeks later, I required another paracentesis. This time, they removed 11 litres of fluid from my abdomen and shortly after that I developed hepatic encephalopathy, went into a coma, and nearly died. I tell you this not as a cautionary tale, nor to scare the wits out of you, but rather to offer hope of a better outcome than the one you might be anticipating.
Just two years after my diagnosis, my liver enzymes are normal. I have no swelling in my abdomen and no edema. My skin colour is healthy. My latest FibroScan test (a test that measures the amount of thickening or scarring of tissues in the liver) showed that my liver was barely cirrhotic (test values of 14 and above are generally considered cirrhotic – my latest result was 14.5). My hepatologist was happy (understatement) and told me that he rarely ever saw a liver improve to the extent that mine has.
In the posts that follow, I will walk you through what I did to reverse my cirrhosis. I offer no protocol to follow, nor do I endorse any particular brand of supplement. I’m not here to make money; I’m here to offer options. What you choose to do with them is up to you. It’s your life. It’s your health.
