By: Zainab Salam, Opinions Editor

One day, two and a half years ago, I woke up with agonizing pain in my abdomen. After hours of attempting to get through it — thinking it might’ve been a muscle cramp — I made my way to the hospital. Long story short: it was a kidney stone. Resolving that issue with an operation wasn’t the end of my problem. Only eight months later, compounding issues began to occur with my kidney. One thing led to another, and I went from being a healthy-bodied individual to a chronically ill person. When I started to seek support from SFU, I found myself navigating a system that was fragmented, inconsistent, and ultimately unfit to address illness. By the time I accepted my new reality, it was too late to apply to receive accommodations from the Centre for Accessible Learning (CAL). There was no immediate, alternative institutional pathway. My case was left for my then four professors to decide. Two of them were very kind and understanding — the other two, not so much.  

The fight for my rights and protection that followed introduced me to the devastating gaps in SFU’s approach to student illness. This isn’t a novel realization, I fear. Having to fight for accommodations is likely on the forefront of every chronically ill student. It made me grasp the urgent need for SFU to implement a comprehensive, standardized system to manage illness and disability — both short-term and prolonged — that goes beyond the limited scope of CAL. 

Even in my conversations with a CAL representative, I was told that my health issues, which had been on-going for nine months at this point, would not qualify me for CAL accommodations. So where was I supposed to turn? There was no centralized process for handling these grey-zone cases. I was left to advocate for myself with individual instructors, each with their interpretations of fairness and responsibility. 

It’s clear that the lack of an institution-wide framework for instructors and students to follow not only allows but enables such transgressions to occur. The discrepancy in the interactions we as students have with our instructors is frustrating and discriminatory. Students don’t know what to expect when they reach out to instructors. And without a clear, universal protocol, accommodation becomes a lottery of luck rather than a guaranteed right. 

If my medical documentation was not enough to prove the legitimacy of my health issue, and did not garner enough empathy from my professors, what does that communicate about SFU’s values? There was no way for me to understand SFU’s values, other than upholding able-bodied norms as the only acceptable form of existing. In the absence of a unified policy, SFU effectively communicates that illness is rejected from educational spaces. 

The truth is, I’m no stranger to the ableist world we live in. 

Even now, I find myself needing to communicate personal information to my instructors on a regular basis. This feels highly invasive. Let alone that medical notes contain even more personal information — health number, birthday, along with my medical history. Information I don’t feel entirely comfortable divulging. Yes, instructors most likely don’t care about my personal health number or birthday, but I still feel a sense of invasion of privacy handing that medical note. Which I assume is kept in some file to document my extension. And for what? There’s no guarantee my vulnerability will be met with support. 

On top of the emotional and academic toll, there’s also the financial cost of being sick. I couldn’t work for months and had to go on sick leave — a break that significantly reduced my income. And then there’s the price of being believed: every medical note I submitted cost $50. Since I was expected to provide documentation every couple of months, this added up quickly. I was paying hundreds of dollars just to prove I was unwell. 

Worse still, the academic penalties I’ve faced due to this lack of systemic support have begun to impact my eligibility for post-bachelor programs. Missed deadlines, inconsistent attendance, and lowered grades — all stemming from circumstances beyond my control — now live permanently on my transcript. In essence, I’m being punished for being sick. My future academic and professional opportunities are being narrowed, not because I lack potential, but because I lacked institutional protection. And because SFU lacks a clear, compassionate system for dealing with medical crises. 

The truth is, I’m no stranger to the ableist world we live in. Disability justice clearly outlines that accessibility shouldn’t be a luxury but a baseline — a shared commitment to collective care, autonomy, and interdependence. Yet, SFU continues to operate under a reactive model that individualizes crises and burdens students with the responsibility of proving their pain. 

The reality is this: SFU’s current accommodation system is broken — it leaves students with health issues and disabilities at the mercy of instructor discretion and reinforces ableist norms. We need a centralized, and transparent process — one that trusts students, protects privacy, and acknowledges that illness and disability do not follow tidy deadlines. SFU must stop putting students in the vulnerable position of begging for basic support, and instead build a system that reflects respect for our shared humanity. Anything less is unjust.