I’m 102 years old, and today I’m going to talk about something old people usually don’t bring up at the dinner table. The nights when you barely fall asleep before you have to get up again. The ankles that no longer fit into your slippers by evening. And the fear you can’t see on anyone’s face.
Because it’s not just illness we’re afraid of. We’re afraid that one day our daughter will walk in, look around the kitchen, and say, “Mom, you can’t manage on your own anymore. ”
My name is Helena. At home, everyone always called me Hela.
I’m not a doctor. I’m not going to tell you I fixed my kidneys with beans or an apple. That’s the kind of thing a person says when they’re trying to sell you something, or when they don’t know what they’re talking about. I’ll only tell you what I changed in my own life after getting my test results and talking to my doctor.
It worked for me. But diseased kidneys require different things for every person. For one person, the doctor limits salt. For another, potassium.
For someone else, it’s phosphorus, protein, or fluids. You can’t guess those things at the kitchen table. I was 87 when my nights stopped being nights. I got up four times.
Sometimes five. First, I’d sit on the edge of the bed because the room spun in the dark. Then I’d feel around for my slippers. I’d walk slowly, one hand on the wall, so I wouldn’t fall.
I’d come back to bed, pull the covers up, and already know that in an hour it would all start again. In the morning, I was angry at the whole world. Mostly at my own body. By evening, my socks left deep marks on my legs.
My ankles swelled. My calves felt heavy. There was a dull ache in my lower back—not sharp, but stubborn. For months, I told myself, “Hela, you’re almost 90.
What do you expect? ”
That’s the worst sentence an old person can say to themselves. Because when you blame everything on old age, you can miss something important. So I went to the clinic.
An ordinary clinic. I took a number and held my coat over my arm. The doctor didn’t immediately say it was my kidneys. He ordered blood tests, urine tests, blood sugar, blood pressure.
He checked my medications and my heart. He told me that getting up at night and swelling could have many causes. The kidneys were just one of them. And I’m glad he said that.
These days, people hear one word on the internet, diagnose themselves, start drinking herbal teas, stop taking their tablets, and then wonder why they feel worse. My results showed that my kidneys weren’t working as freely as they used to. It wasn’t a crisis yet. But it was a clear sign.
Take care of yourself now, before someone has to do it for you. When I got home, I took out a blue notebook that had belonged to my granddaughter. On the first page, I wrote down four things. What I ate.
How many times I got up at night. What my ankles looked like in the evening. And what my blood pressure was. Without that notebook, I probably would have said after a week that nothing was working.
Old people are impatient too. We just walk slower. The first thing I changed wasn’t beans or tofu. It was salt.
Not the pinch you can see between your fingers. Most of the salt was sneaking into my house in deli meat, in bouillon cubes, in ready-made sauces, in instant soup, in cans I opened when I didn’t feel like cooking. I thought I was eating normally. But in the evening, my body was holding water like an old sponge.
I didn’t throw the salt shaker out the window. I just started cooking from scratch. I added marjoram to soup, bay leaf, garlic, dill. For fish, lemon.
Instead of three slices of cold cuts, I took one. Or I had an egg. And I didn’t buy any of those special “heart-healthy” salts. Some of them have a lot of potassium.
My doctor was clear: don’t take anything like that without asking. After two weeks, food tasted normal. After a month, ready-made soups tasted so salty to me it was like drinking seawater. Only later did I go back to beans and lentils.
In my home, beans were never a trend. They were dinner at the end of the month. You cooked them with onion, bay leaf, and a little marjoram. Nobody called it plant-based protein.
It was just beans. My test results allowed small portions. I ate them two or three times a week instead of a big piece of meat. Dried beans were soaked and cooked in fresh water.
If I used canned ones, I rinsed them thoroughly to wash off some of the salt. But listen to me carefully. If you have kidney disease and your doctor told you to limit potassium or phosphorus, don’t copy my plate. Beans aren’t the right food for everyone.
Your test results decide that. Not an internet video. The third thing was the strangest for me. Tofu.
My granddaughter brought it to me the first time. She unwrapped a white block from the paper and said, “Grandma, try it. ”
I looked at it and answered, “Child, I’ve lived my whole life without eating a sponge. ”
But I tried it.
On its own, it tasted like nothing. Only when I fried a small piece with onion, garlic, and marjoram did it become something worth talking to. I didn’t eat tofu every day. Once, maybe twice a week, I used it instead of heavier meat.
That made dinner lighter. And I still got my protein. And again—the amount of protein for someone with kidney disease has to be settled with a doctor or a dietitian. Too much can hurt.
Too little can also weaken you, especially an older person. Then came the apple. Not an exotic powder. Not berries from the end of the earth.
An ordinary Polish apple. In the morning, I’d cut it into four parts. Sometimes I ate it alone, sometimes with two spoonfuls of plain yogurt without sugar. It wasn’t a medicine for my kidneys.
It just replaced the sweet pastry, sweet yogurt, and cookies I used to nibble with tea. That kind of change looks small. But small things eaten every day make more of a difference than some grand resolution you make once a month. Yogurt isn’t right for everyone with kidney disease either.
Dairy has phosphorus and potassium. In my case, a small portion fit my results. If you have different results, you need different advice. But the most important change wasn’t on the plate.
My doctor told me to write down when I drank and when I went to the bathroom. He didn’t say, drink as much as you can. He didn’t say, don’t drink. He set an amount that was right for me.
I drank most of my fluids earlier in the day. In the evening, I didn’t pour myself three cups of tea just because the TV was on. After dinner, I went for a short walk. Not a sport.
Just to the gate, then a bit down the street, then back. When my ankles swelled, I rested with my legs slightly elevated, like I was told. And I took care of my medications. I didn’t stop taking them because I felt good for three days.
I didn’t double them because I felt worse. An old person is not a laboratory for their own experiments. The first month wasn’t a miracle. One night I got up three times instead of four.
The next night, four again. One day my ankles looked better; the next day, worse. But the notebook didn’t lie. After a few weeks, there were more good nights.
After a few months, I was mostly getting up once, maybe twice. The swelling went down. I had more strength in the morning because I finally slept a little. I didn’t get younger.
I didn’t cleanse my kidneys. I didn’t turn back time. I just stopped adding work to my body that it didn’t need to do. And I started getting regular check-ups.
Today, I’m 102 years old. I still have an old body. Sometimes my back hurts. Sometimes a leg won’t listen.
Sometimes I fall asleep in the armchair before the weather report is over. But I still choose what goes on my table. I open the curtain myself in the morning. I water the flowers in front of the house myself.
That’s what health means to me. Not the absence of all disease. But as much of your own life as possible, in your own hands. And one more thing.
The worst time for my body came after my husband died. Not because I suddenly ran out of beans. I ran out of a reason to get up in the morning. I stopped cooking.
I ate whatever was around. I sat by the window and watched people walk by. What pulled me out of it was a neighbor. She knocked on my door and asked me to stay with her granddaughter for an hour.
That hour became a Tuesday. Then every Tuesday had a purpose. When someone is waiting for you, it’s easier to make soup, take your medicine, and go for a short walk. You take better care of yourself when you know you’re still needed by someone.
I’m not going to tell you that loneliness damages your kidneys and conversation heals them. Life isn’t that simple. I’ll just say this. A lonely person stops fighting for themselves more quickly.
I almost stopped. So my advice isn’t: everyone should eat tofu and beans. It’s different. If you’re getting up all night, if your legs are swelling, if you’re weak, or if something has suddenly changed—don’t wait for it to pass on its own.
Go to a doctor. Get your tests done. Ask what should be limited in your case, and what must not be limited. Then take an ordinary notebook.
Write things down. Don’t change everything at once. One change, then another. Less processed food.
Less salt, if the doctor advises it. Portions of protein that match your results. Fluids set for you, not for your neighbor. A little movement, as much as your body allows.
And someone worth calling in the morning. Your kidneys don’t need advertising. They need sense, tests, and time. I started taking proper care of myself only after I turned 80.
So don’t tell me it’s too late for you. It’s only too late when a person no longer wants to find anything out. And if you’re still reading this, it means you do want to.