I am 102 years old, and tonight I’m going to talk about something older people rarely bring up at the table. The nights when you barely fall asleep before your bladder drags you out of bed again. The ankles that no longer fit into your slippers by evening. The fear that isn’t written on your face.
Because you don’t only fear the illness. You fear the day your daughter walks in, looks around the kitchen, and says, “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 won’t tell you I fixed my kidneys with beans or an apple. People who say that are usually trying to sell you something, or they have no idea what they’re talking about. I’ll only tell you what I changed in my own life after tests and a conversation with my doctor.
It helped me. But sick kidneys demand different things from different people. One person’s doctor will restrict salt. Another’s will restrict potassium, phosphorus, protein, or fluids.
That’s not something you guess at over 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 search for my slippers. I’d walk slowly, one hand on the wall so I wouldn’t fall. I’d come back to bed, pull up the covers, and already know that in an hour, it would all start again. By morning, I was angry at the whole world, and most of all at my own body.
My socks left deep grooves in my legs by evening. My ankles swelled. My calves felt heavy and tight. A dull, stubborn ache settled in my lower back, not sharp, but relentless.
For months, I told myself, “Hela, you’re almost ninety. What do you expect? ”
That’s the worst sentence an older person can say to themselves. Because when you blame everything on old age, you can miss something important.
So I went to the clinic. The ordinary one in our neighborhood, with a number ticket in my hand and my coat draped over my arm. The doctor didn’t immediately say kidneys. He ordered blood tests, urine tests, 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 only one possibility. And I’m glad he said that.
These days, people hear one word on the internet, diagnose themselves, start drinking herbs, stop taking their prescribed tablets, and then wonder why they get worse. My results showed that my kidneys weren’t working as freely as they once had. It wasn’t a crisis yet, but it was a clear sign. Start taking care of yourself before someone has to take care of you.
At home, I took out a blue notebook that 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 would have given up after a week, convinced nothing was working. Older 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 see between your fingers.
Most of the salt in my house came in silently. In cold cuts. In bouillon cubes. In ready-made sauces.
In soup from a packet. In the canned food I opened when I didn’t feel like cooking. I thought I was eating normally, but my body was holding water like an old sponge by the end of the day. I didn’t throw the salt shaker out the window.
I just started cooking from scratch. I put marjoram in my soup, bay leaf, garlic, dill. Lemon on fish. Instead of three slices of cold cuts, I took one, or I made an egg.
And I didn’t buy that special heart-healthy salt either. Some of those substitutes are loaded with potassium. My doctor told me plainly not to take anything like that without asking him. After two weeks, food tasted normal.
After a month, the ready-made soups tasted so salty I felt like I was drinking sea water. Only then did I return to beans and lentils. In my house, beans were never a trend. They were dinner at the end of the month when money ran tight.
We cooked them with onion, bay leaf, and a little marjoram. Nobody called it plant-based protein. It was just beans. My test results allowed for small portions.
I ate them two or three times a week instead of a large piece of meat. I soaked dry beans overnight and cooked them in fresh water. If I used canned beans, I rinsed them thoroughly to wash away 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 medicine for everyone. That decision belongs to your test results. Not to a video on the internet.
The third change was the strangest for me. Tofu. My granddaughter brought it to me the first time. She pulled this white block out of the wrapping and said, “Grandma, try it.
”
I looked at it and said, “Child, I’ve lived my whole life without eating a sponge. But fine. 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 to replace a heavier meat. My dinner became lighter, and I still got my protein.
And again, when your kidneys are sick, the amount of protein has to be determined with your doctor or a dietitian. Too much can hurt you. Too little can weaken you, especially an older person. Then came the apple.
Not some exotic powder. Not berries from the ends of the earth. A plain Polish apple. I cut it into four pieces in the morning.
Sometimes I ate it alone. Sometimes with two spoonfuls of plain yogurt without sugar. It wasn’t medication for my kidneys. It simply replaced the sweet roll, the sugary yogurt, and the biscuits I used to nibble with my tea.
That change seems small. But small things eaten every day do more than grand resolutions made once a month. Yogurt isn’t for everyone with kidney disease either, because dairy products contain phosphorus and potassium. For me, a small portion fit my results.
Someone with different results needs different advice. But the most important change wasn’t on my plate at all. The 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 stopped pouring myself three cups of tea just because the television was on.
After dinner, I took a short walk. Not a sport. Just to the gate, a little way down the street, and back. When my ankles swelled, I rested with my legs slightly elevated, as I was told.
And I took my medications properly. I didn’t skip them just because I felt fine for three days. I didn’t double them when I felt worse. An older person is not a laboratory for their own experiments.
The first month didn’t bring a miracle. One night I got up three times instead of four. The next night it was four again. Some evenings my ankles looked better, some evenings worse.
But the notebook didn’t lie. After a few weeks, good nights outnumbered the bad ones. After several months, I mostly got up once or twice. The swelling went down.
I had more energy in the morning because I actually slept. I didn’t get younger. I didn’t cleanse my kidneys. I didn’t turn back time.
I simply stopped piling extra work onto my body every single day, and I started getting regular checkups. Today I am 102 years old. I still have an old body. Sometimes my back hurts.
Sometimes my leg won’t cooperate. Sometimes I fall asleep in the armchair before the weather report ends. But I still choose what goes on my table myself. I still open the curtains myself in the morning.
I still water the flowers in front of the house myself. That is what health means to me. Not the absence of all illness. But as much of my own life as possible, in my own hands.
And one more thing. The worst time for my body came after my husband died. Not because I suddenly lacked beans. Because I lost the reason to get out of bed in the morning.
I stopped cooking. I ate whatever was easiest. I sat by the window and watched other people walk somewhere. A neighbor pulled me out of it.
She knocked on my door and asked me to watch her granddaughter for an hour. That hour became a regular Tuesday. Then every Tuesday had a purpose. When someone is waiting for you, it’s easier to cook 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 won’t tell you that loneliness destroys your kidneys and conversation heals them. Life isn’t that simple. I’ll only say this: a lonely person stops fighting for themselves faster.
I almost stopped. So my advice isn’t: everyone should eat tofu and beans. It sounds 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 the doctor. Get tested. Ask what you need to limit in your case, and what you must not limit. Then take an ordinary notebook and write things down.
Not everything at once. One change. Then another. Less processed food.
Less salt, if your doctor recommends it. Protein portions matched to your results. Fluids set for you, not for your neighbor. Some movement, as much as your body allows.
And someone worth calling in the morning. Your kidneys don’t need advertising. They need common sense, checkups, and time. I only started properly taking care of myself after I turned eighty.
So don’t tell me it’s too late for you. It’s only too late when a person stops wanting to find things out. And if you’re still reading this, you still want to. I’d like to ask you where you’re listening from, and how old you are.
And whether your home had a blue notebook too, where everything was written down before phones started remembering things for us. Because maybe someone will read your words and finally book that appointment they’ve been putting off for months. And then this conversation of mine won’t have been wasted.