The Wellness Research Report Facebook ad: “Support your liver without giving up the life you built”

About this ad

Meta Ad Library ID

1367179995372213

Platforms

Facebook, Instagram, Audience Network, Messenger and Threads

Relaunches

0

How we count

Ad text

My older sister was diagnosed with fatty liver in March 2022. She never drank a day in her life. After the diagnosis, she cut out sugar. Went on the Mediterranean diet. Walked three miles a day. Lost 2.5 stone. She died of liver failure on 8th July 2024 at 4:33 am. She was 62 years old. She cut out sugar completely on the 14th of March. Did the Mediterranean diet for two years and four months. Lost 2.5 stone. Walked her yellow lab Daisy three miles every single morning before the summer sun got too high, summer and winter, didn't matter. She did everything the consultant hepatologist told her. The private medical bills were £45,000 because they couldn't wait on the NHS. The funeral was £9,400. Her last voicemail is still on my phone. I can't delete it. If I delete it, she's really gone. I need to tell you what happened to Carol. Because every week I see posts on Facebook from women like her — "my enzymes are slightly elevated, the GP said to cut carbs, any tips?" — and I can't keep scrolling past them. If you or someone you love has been told their liver enzymes are creeping up — or has walked out of a doctor's surgery with a diet plan and a six-month follow-up — please read this whole thing. I know it's long. I know you're scrolling. I know you have things to do. Fifteen months ago I would have given anything — everything — for someone to tell me what I'm about to tell you. Carol went in for her annual health MOT on the 11th of March 2022. She felt fine. Better than fine. She'd just turned 60. She was still helping out with the reception class at our local primary school. She still tended the rose garden behind her house. She thought she was healthy and honestly so did I — she'd never smoked, never been a drinker, our dad was 87 and still driving. Three days later her GP called. ALT of 87. AST of 81. The ultrasound came back with moderate steatosis. The hepatologist confirmed it two weeks later. Non-alcoholic fatty liver disease. F2 fibrosis already. "There's no medication for this. We treat it with lifestyle. Mediterranean diet, drop 10% of your body weight, walk every day. We'll retest in six months." Carol hung up the phone and sat at her kitchen table for forty minutes without saying anything. Then she stood up, opened the cupboard, and started filling a bin bag. I was there. I'd driven over the second she called. I watched her throw out the Crunchy Nut Cornflakes. The Ryvita. Three packets of shortbread biscuits. Two jars of Hartley's jam her grandkids ate when they came over. The Marks & Spencer ready meals in the freezer. The Mr Kipling pies. The mint Viennetta she'd kept in the bottom drawer for thirty years. "That's it," she said. "I'm done." And she was. For 28 months, she didn't break the diet once. No bread. No pasta. No sugar. Not at her granddaughter's first communion party in May. Not on Bill's 65th birthday cruise where the dining room set down a slice of sticky toffee pudding in front of her and she asked them to take it back. Not at her own 61st birthday dinner where I made her grilled sea bass and a salad and she smiled and said it was the best birthday meal she'd ever had. She stopped going to the Wednesday lunches at her bridge club because everyone was bringing pasta salads and bread baskets and she couldn't sit there with a plate of plain chicken without feeling like she was in the wrong room. She stopped coming to my Saturday morning coffee — the one we'd been having on my patio since 1993 — because the smell of my homemade scones made her quiet in a way I couldn't fix. She lost her oldest friend Diane, who told her "you're no fun anymore" and stopped calling. She lost a piece of herself she'd been carrying for 35 years. And she did it anyway. Because the doctor said to. She lost 2.5 stone. She walked Daisy — her yellow lab — three miles every morning before the heat got high, summer and winter, didn't matter. She bought a juicer. Carol. With a juicer. I still can't picture it. She took the milk thistle her hepatologist "wasn't against." She took a multivitamin. She drank lemon water every morning. She ate exactly what they told her to eat. She did everything right. The follow-up bloods came back on the 14th of September 2022. ALT: 84. AST: 79. Six months of doing everything right and the numbers had barely moved. The doctor said, "The liver heals slowly. Give it more time. We'll retest in six months. Keep doing what you're doing." So she did. March 2023 bloods: ALT 89. AST 84. Higher. September 2023 bloods: ALT 97. AST 92. The Fibroscan in May 2024 showed F3. She had progressed. Carol came home that night and sat at her kitchen table. The same table she'd sat at after the first phone call. She didn't say anything for a long time. Then she said: "Janet, I gave up everything. Everything I loved to eat. For 26 months. And it's getting worse." I told her to give it more time. I told her the hepatologist said it could take two years. I told her to trust the process. She nodded. She kept walking Daisy. She kept eating the sea bass and the spinach. She kept taking the milk thistle. Five days later — five days — she woke up at 2 am with a pain in her right side that doubled her over. Bill drove her to A&E and called me from the car park at 4 am. I got in my car in my pyjamas. By the time I got there, the whites of her eyes were yellow. Not "a little off." Yellow. Like a highlighter. Like someone had switched a light on behind them. The A&E doctor — a young woman, couldn't have been 35 — looked at Carol's bloods and her face did this thing. "Mrs Whitaker, your bilirubin is 8.7. Your ALT is now 584. Your liver is in acute decompensation. We're admitting you to ICU." "But I've been on the diet for over two years," Carol said. The doctor just looked at her. "I know, Mrs Whitaker. I'm so sorry." Carol spent 6 days in the ICU. I learned things about the liver I never wanted to know. I learned that when a liver shuts down, the toxins your body produces every single day — ammonia, mostly — start building up in your blood and crossing into your brain. They call it hepatic encephalopathy. It means your sister stops being your sister. She looks at you like she's trying to remember who you are. She says things that don't connect. On day 3, Carol asked me three times in twenty minutes where our mother was. Our mother died in 2018. I learned that they inject something called NAC intravenously when a liver is shutting down. The nurse told me it's the same compound they use for paracetamol overdoses. She said it forces the liver to mount a massive antioxidant defence to try and put out the oxidative fire destroying the tissue. She said it's a desperate measure, and at this stage they were hoping it could buy her time. It bought her 6 days. Day 4, her kidneys started failing. The doctors talked about a transplant. Then they talked about her not being a candidate because of how fast she was declining. Then they stopped talking about transplants altogether. Day 5, her belly swelled up like she was nine months pregnant. They drained 3 litres of fluid out of her abdomen. The nurse called it ascites. I called Tom in London. Day 6 — 8th July — I was in the family waiting room down the corridor. They'd asked me to step out. At 4:27 am I heard the long beep down the hall. At 4:33 am, a young resident I'd never seen walked into the waiting room. I knew. "Mrs Marsh. I'm so sorry. We did everything we could." I drove home at 6:30 am. Then I drove to Bill's a few hours later, because he couldn't be in that house alone yet. Carol's juicer was still on the counter. Her walking shoes by the back door. The milk thistle on the windowsill above the sink, right next to the multivitamin. And on my phone, her voicemail from the day before. From when she didn't know yet. "Hey Jan, it's me. Call me back when you get a sec. I love you." Where it sits today. I went home that night and sat down in Carol's chair. The one she'd sat in every Saturday morning at my kitchen table for 35 years. I didn't move for seven hours. The house was so quiet I could hear the clock in the hallway tick. 56 years she'd been my sister. And the loudest thing in my house was a clock. The funeral was 15th July. Bill flew their daughter down from Edinburgh with the grandkids. Our brother Tom got the train up from London. The grandkids wore dresses that were too big for them. My five-year-old great-niece asked me: "Auntie Janet, when is Nan coming home?" I told her Nan was in heaven now. She said: "Can we call her there?" I had to walk out of the room. After the funeral, I tried to go back to normal. I couldn't. Because every time I opened Facebook I saw women of Carol's age — posting things like, "my enzymes came back borderline, GP said borderline fatty liver, anyone tried anything?" Or, "Mediterranean diet for 6 months, my numbers haven't moved, what else can I try?" And I knew — I KNEW — some of them were doing exactly what Carol did. The diet. The walking. The juicing. The milk thistle. And ending up where she ended up. I couldn't just sit there and watch it happen. So I started researching. Not because I wanted to. Because I had to. Because if Carol gave up two years and four months of everything she loved for nothing — if I can't save even one other family from what happened to mine — then I can't live with that. I read for weeks. Medical journals I had to read three times to understand. Hepatology forums where people described Carol's exact trajectory. Clinical studies out of Japan and Germany. And one thing kept coming up, over and over, that no hepatologist ever told us. The reason Carol's numbers didn't come down is that lifestyle changes only slow the damage. They don't repair the micro-vessels that have already been choked off. Specifically: oxidative fire and endothelial dysfunction. Your liver is one of the most vascular organs in your body. It relies on a massive micro-network of blood vessels to filter everything that passes through your body — every medication, every environmental toxin, every fatty meal. And here's what no one told us. After age 40, your natural antioxidant production declines. Modern life — processed food, medications, environmental toxins — triggers a massive oxidative fire inside the liver. When that fire burns through your remaining defences, the oxidative stress physically chokes off those micro-vessels. The blood flow drops. The liver's immune cells panic, and that's when scar tissue forms. Read that again. Carol's liver wasn't damaged just because she ate the wrong food. It was damaged because a chronic oxidative fire had choked off her liver's blood supply — and once those vessels are choked off, even the cleanest food in the world will slowly destroy your liver because the blood flow is broken. And here's why eating clean alone didn't save her: cleaning up the diet stops adding fuel to the fire. It doesn't put out the fire that's already burning, and it doesn't reopen the choked-off blood vessels. Her micro-vasculature was already choked off by the time the hepatologist told her to cut the carbs. That's why her numbers wouldn't move. She gave up everything she loved to eat to stop the bleeding from a wound that had already choked off her liver's blood supply. I sat with that for three days. And then I started looking at what I'd been doing. I'd thrown out the milk thistle bottle Carol had left at my house. But I bought a new bottle for myself. Because I'm 57. Because my last physical came back with "mildly elevated" liver enzymes too. Because I was terrified. I took it for a month. My GP — a different one than Carol's, who I called because I trusted her — sighed when I told her. "Janet, milk thistle protects liver cells. But you cannot protect cells when their blood supply is choked off. It sits on the surface while the vascular damage continues underneath. It doesn't reopen anything." Then she said something I'll never forget. "If Carol had been on something that actually flooded her liver with nitric oxide and reopened those micro-vessels, her story might have been very different." I stopped breathing for a second. "Why didn't her doctor prescribe that?" She was quiet for a long time. "Because we don't prescribe dietary flavanols. And the version that works isn't a prescription." I went to Boots the next day. I stood in that supplement aisle for forty-five minutes. Milk thistle. Liver detox tea. Dandelion root capsules. 30-day "liver cleanse" kits. Multivitamins with "liver support." Generic cocoa capsules. I bought a premium cocoa extract. Took it for three weeks. Ran my bloods. Nothing. I started digging again and what I found made me throw the bottle in the bin. To reopen choked-off hepatic blood vessels, you need a massive, sustained dose of a specific flavanol called epicatechin. The most potent source on earth is raw cacao. But here is the catch. Commercial chocolate and standard "cocoa" capsules are dutched and alkalised. That manufacturing process destroys up to 90% of the active flavanols—the only part that actually does anything for your liver. And the brands that aren't dutched pack a tiny amount of flavanols into a capsule loaded with sugar, which spikes the exact liver inflammation you're trying to fight. You're paying for compounds that have been destroyed or corrupted before they ever reach your bloodstream. I had been doing the right thing in the wrong form. I was furious. I'm still furious. About two weeks later I was up at 1 am on a fatty liver support forum — the same one I'd been reading since Carol died — and a woman in Yorkshire posted something that stopped me cold. She said her sister had been diagnosed with NAFLD at 58. F3 fibrosis. She did the diet. Her Fibroscan progressed anyway — sound familiar? — and then she found a pure, cold-processed raw cacao capsule that hadn't been destroyed by dutching. Her ALT went from 106 to 31 in twelve weeks. Her next Fibroscan came back at F1. Without changing anything else. I read that post four times. I started looking into the formula she mentioned. And what I learned is that there are five things a serious liver support has to do at the same time, or it's a waste of your money. It has to flood the bloodstream with nitric oxide to force open the choked-off hepatic blood vessels. That's epicatechin. It has to completely neutralise the oxidative fire that causes the scar tissue in the first place. That requires clinical-strength antioxidant power (gram for gram, 40 times the capacity of blueberries). It has to be strictly cold-processed so the delicate flavanols actually survive from the plant to your body. It must never be dutched or alkalised. And it must contain zero added sugar, no fillers, and no synthetic rubbish. Five things. All five. At the same time. I went through every product I'd looked at in Boots. Not one of them did all five. Most did one. The expensive ones did two. Not a single true, cold-processed epicatechin source in the whole aisle. That's when I found Florenix. It was the only formula I could find that hit all five. 600mg of raw flavanols and epicatechin per capsule. From raw cacao, cold-processed, never dutched, zero sugar. 90-day money-back guarantee tied to your actual blood test results — if your numbers don't improve, you get every penny back, no questions asked. I almost didn't order it. After the Boots aisle. After the milk thistle. After Carol. After everything. But my brother Tom was sitting on an ALT of 142 and a "borderline fatty liver" diagnosis his GP said to "monitor." My son-in-law in Manchester had just been told his Fibroscan showed early steatosis. I had my own bloods creeping in the wrong direction. I ordered it. Tom first. ALT 142. Diagnosed NAFLD eighteen months ago, doing the diet, watching the numbers climb anyway. I didn't ask. I sent him a bottle and a note that said, "If you don't take this every day I will never speak to you again, Tom, I mean it." He took it. He didn't give up his food — he's stubborn the way Carol was stubborn — but he took the one capsule every morning. He went back to his GP last month for his follow-up. ALT: 41. Down from 142. In ten weeks. He hadn't changed anything else. Same diet, same walks, same life. The only thing he changed was the capsule of flavanols he took with his morning breakfast. He called me crying. My 54-year-old brother. Crying on the phone like a kid. He said, "Jan, I think Carol died because nobody told her about this." I had to hang up. Then there's my son-in-law in Manchester. 39, two little girls, early NAFLD on his last Fibroscan. Started taking it eight weeks ago. He says the dull ache he'd had under his right rib for two years — the one his GP told him was "probably just trapped wind" — is gone. He says his afternoon energy is back for the first time since the diagnosis. My neighbour across the street, Patricia. Her husband died of cirrhosis fourteen months before Carol. She and I started having coffee on Tuesdays after the funeral. She started taking it three days after I told her, just for prevention. She says it's the first time in years that she doesn't feel like she's waiting for her own diagnosis. I told Bill, Carol's husband. I told the women in my church group. I told Carol's old knitting circle when they came by to drop off a casserole. I'm not a doctor. I'm not a scientist. I'm not selling anything and I don't get one penny from any of this. I'm a 57-year-old woman sitting in my kitchen at 2 in the morning because I can't sleep and I can't stop thinking about Tom in London and my son-in-law in Manchester and the women on that support forum posting "my sister's numbers won't come down, what else can we try." Here's what I know because I lived it: Eating clean stops adding fuel to the fire. It doesn't put out the fire that's already burning. It doesn't reopen the choked-off blood vessels. Milk thistle protects liver cells. But you cannot protect cells when their blood supply has been choked off. Commercial chocolate and alkalised cocoa capsules destroy the very compounds your liver needs. Cold-processed raw cacao bypasses this. Carol gave up everything she loved to eat for 28 months and it didn't save her because nobody told her what was actually broken. I wish someone had told us before the 11th of March 2022. Before the diagnosis. Before the bin bag of food in the kitchen. Before the 28 months of plain grilled sea bass. Before 8th July at 4:33 am. I can't go back. Carol can't come back. Her chair at my kitchen table is going to stay where it is. But you can still go forward. Your sister can. Your mother can. Your daughter can. You can. The page that explains all of this — the oxidative fire mechanism, why the Mediterranean diet alone wasn't enough, what your hepatologist doesn't know about dutched cocoa, and exactly what's inside Florenix — it's the page I found at 3 am. Not protecting. Reopening. That's the line that finally made it click for me. I want you to read it. Not for me. For whoever you'd leave behind. 👇 https://florenix.com/products/florenix-cocoa-flavanols Carol used to say, "You can't change what already happened. But you can ask better questions about what comes next." You can ask better questions. — Janet Marsh, age 57, Harrogate, North Yorkshire P.S. Carol's voicemail is still on my phone. I still can't delete it. Every morning I scroll past it and for one second I think it's new. For one second I think she's calling to ask if I want to come over for Saturday coffee. She's not. £45,000 in private medical bills. £9,400 for the funeral. 28 months of her giving up every food she loved for nothing. And a capsule of pure flavanols that costs less than the bag of organic spinach she was juicing every morning — a capsule my own GP told me could have changed everything if we'd known. Please. Don't end up here. Don't let someone you love end up here. 👇 https://florenix.com/products/florenix-cocoa-flavanols P.P.S. I don't work for Florenix. I don't get a penny from this. I'm writing this at 2:41 am because I can't sleep and Carol's chair across the table is empty and Tom in London is 54 and the women on that forum are still posting at 2 am and I'm terrified every time my phone rings. Share this with anyone you love who has fatty liver. Even "mild." Even "borderline." Even if they're doing the diet perfectly. Especially then. Please.

Where the ad sends people

florenix.com

Support your liver without giving up the life you built

Let me tell you my story, because it's probably gonna sound familiar.