Latest news with #chronicillness
BBC News
2 days ago
- Health
- BBC News
Wolverhampton single mum graduates despite two chronic illnesses
A single mother determined to give her son a better future has graduated with a law degree despite living with two chronic medical Brown, a student at University of Wolverhampton, said she never considered giving up on her dream while suffering from the debilitating symptoms of Ankylosing Spondylitis and 29-year-old said she was the first person in her family to go to university and that it was the support from her tutors and family that helped her pass her LLP (Hons) Law course."There were days I couldn't get out of bed, times I lost my sight and even a cancer scare during my final exams but I never gave up," she said. "My mum has been my biggest cheerleader and I owe so much to her love and strength."According to the NHS, Ankylosing Spondylitis is a long-term condition in which the spine and other areas of the body become inflamed, causing back pain, stiffness, swelling and extreme also causes pain all over the body, with increased pain sensitivity, stiffness, fatigue, headaches and problem with mental processes among the Brown said she wanted to continue her studies by pursuing a master's degree, with the aim of qualifying as a solicitor in mental health law."I want to sit in an office with my son's photo on the desk and know that I made it, not just for me but for him," she added."To anyone facing challenges - don't let anything stop you." Follow BBC Wolverhampton & Black Country on BBC Sounds, Facebook, X and Instagram.
Malay Mail
2 days ago
- Health
- Malay Mail
Struggling as a caregiver? Here's how you can navigate care work in Malaysia with subsidies, support and respite services
KUALA LUMPUR, July 29 — Care work is not something new in Malaysia especially when the country is on track to becoming an aged nation by 2030. Often referred to as a 'labour of love', although it is mostly hard work – care work duties often encompasses tasks such as cleaning the house, preparing children for school, cooking for the family or caring for an elderly parent. Not forgetting those with spouses or children or parents with chronic illnesses and disabilities – which usually means extra care work to cater to their specific needs. In Malaysia, most caregivers are informal or family members. According to the Department of Statistics Malaysia (DoSM) Labour Force Survey in February 2024, there are 7.23 million people recorded as being outside the labour force, with the main reason being housework or family responsibilities. Do keep in mind that there are also working individuals who take on a 'second shift' as caregivers after their regular working hours – a responsibility that more often than not falls onto the women of the family, with some of the reasoning behind this being 'historical and cultural norms'. Since care work can often be taxing on a person, not just mentally and physically but also financially, here's a list of available subsidies for chronic illnesses, mental health support, and respite care programmes that could ease the burden on informal caregivers. This list includes programmes offered by local NGOs, hospitals and care service providers, with most requiring background checks and eligibility approval. Subsidised medical programmes Subsidised medical programmes could help unload some of the financial burden held by informal caregivers. — Picture by Sayuti Zainudin National Cancer Society Malaysia (NCSM) The National Cancer Society Malaysia (NCSM) has been around since 1966 and they are the first non-profit organisation in Malaysia to provide education, care and support services for people affected by cancer and the general public. NCSM offers an array of cancer and health screening services at a subsidised price which includes breast cancer, cervical cancer, colorectal cancer, prostate cancer, and normal medical screenings as well as x-ray services. They also have their own Nuclear Medicine Centre that provides immediate and affordable imaging scan facilities which includes bone scan, renal DTPA function study, renal DMSA scan, Meckel's diverticulum scan, and thyroid scan. Aside from that, NCSM also offers accommodation support including a transit home and transportation for the less fortunate who are receiving cancer treatment at either Kuala Lumpur Hospital, Tunku Azizah Hospital, Raja Permaisuri Bainun Hospital, or National Cancer Institute. Please visit for more information. Beacon Hospital Local cancer specialist hospital, Beacon Hospital, in Petaling Jaya, also has a slew of welfare funds under its corporate social responsibility (CSR) programmes. For breast cancer patients, they are offering two types of welfare funds or subsidised medical treatment programmes with the first one being their Breast Cancer Chemotherapy Welfare Fund where patients would only need to pay around 10 per cent of the charges. Chemotherapy could cost up to RM6,000 per cycle and patients would normally require around four to eight cycles of treatment. They also have the Targeted Therapy (HER2+) Welfare Fund for Breast Cancer where eligible patients are only required to pay RM2,500 per cycle for Trastuzumab treatment, which could initially cost up to approximately RM10,000 per cycle. There is also a programme for colorectal cancer chemotherapy where patients would need to pay around RM1,150 which is just 20 per cent of the initial cost. Beacon Hospital also offers radiotherapy and radiosurgery treatment starting as low as RM1,000 under their Radiotherapy and Radiosurgery Welfare Fund. For more information, click here. IHH Healthcare Malaysia IHH Healthcare Malaysia launched their Life Renewed programme back in 2012 as part of their CSR initiative where they are providing free treatment for less fortunate patients across Malaysia. According to the official IHH Healthcare Malaysia website, the Life Renewed programme is available at all IHH Healthcare Malaysia hospitals, including Gleneagles, Pantai, Prince Court Medical Centre, and Timberland Medical Centre. At the moment, Pantai Hospital Kuala Lumpur under the Life Renewed programme, is currently accepting applicants for those needing financial assistance for paediatric congenital heart surgeries. Find more information on how to apply here. Diabetes Malaysia Diabetes Malaysia (DM), formerly known as Persatuan Diabetes Malaysia, is an NGO that organises activities to raise awareness of diabetes and its complications, and to promote and improve diabetes care. Although they are known for spearheading regional conferences and educational programmes related to diabetes, DM also offers a range of subsidised diabetes-related products, such as glucose meters, insulin pens, footwear, glucose strips, and more, available to its members. DM membership is open to all for a yearly membership fee of RM10. Membership form and the subsidised product list are available here. National Kidney Foundation The National Kidney Foundation (NKF) offers a range of quality and comprehensive kidney care and support services for individuals diagnosed with kidney disease. Their services include subsidised haemodialysis services, peritoneal dialysis training and support services, kidney dialysis and transplant financial assistance as well as patient support programmes and education on chronic kidney disease. NKF also has centres all around Malaysia that adhere to standards set by the Ministry of Health with some of their centres having achieved full accreditation by the Malaysian Society for Quality in Health. For more information on their welfare and subsidised programmes, please visit this link. Mental health support Life Line Association Malaysia also provides face to face counselling apart from their helpline. — Picture by Arif Zikri Providing care sometimes can take a toll on your mental health – if you're lonely, distressed, or having negative thoughts, here's a list of carelines offering over-the-phone mental health support and counselling: Befrienders KL offers 24-hour emotional support in Bahasa Malaysia, English, Chinese and Tamil. Reach out to their helpline at 03-76272929. A full list of Befrienders contact numbers and state operating hours can be found here. Talian Kasih is a nationwide 24-hour careline established by the Ministry of Women, Family and Community Development. Reach out to their toll-free hotline at 15999 or contact them via WhatsApp at 019-2615999, which is also available 24 hours a day. The Malaysian Mental Health Association also provides psychological therapy and support services via their helpline at 03-27806803. Their helpline is available on weekdays from 9am to 5pm, except for public holidays. Sneham Malaysia, an NGO formed in 2018, also offers a toll-free helpline at 1800-22-5757, which operates daily from 4pm to 8pm. Their counselling support is primarily in Tamil, but Bahasa Malaysia and English are also available. Life Line Association Malaysia offers counselling and support services via their new helpline at 15995 and their counselling is available in Chinese, Bahasa Malaysia and English. The helpline is available from Monday to Saturday from 9.30am to 1.30am. Respite care services Sometimes, it is good for family caregivers to take some time off from caregiving duties to prevent burnout, and respite care is one of the best options that can provide temporary relief for primary caregivers. Sometimes, it is good for family caregivers to take some time off from caring duties to prevent any burnouts and respite care is one of the best options that can provide temporary relief for primary caregivers. — Picture by Ahmad Zamzahuri From in-house services to day-care centres and even companions for medical appointments, here's a list of available respite care services that might be worth checking out: Teman Malaysia Teman Malaysia offers both long- and short-term care services, which include companionship and caregiving services for the elderly, pregnant women, mothers with young children, and people with disabilities. Their short-term services also include providing companions for health appointments and dialysis treatment, charged at RM35 per hour. They also provide companions for leisure activities, priced at RM70 for two hours. Teman Malaysia also provides free consultations for those interested. Find more information on their packages here. Homage Operating in Singapore and Malaysia, Homage works with care recipients with a range of mobility and medical conditions, including chronic and terminal illnesses such as dementia, stroke, Parkinson's, and cancer. Their respite care services include assisting with daily living activities, medication reminders, physical exercises, nursing care, as well as night care. Homage's hourly charge for their Daily Living Care package with certified caregivers is RM30 per hour, while it is RM35 per hour for their nursing care by licensed nurses. Visit this link for more. My Aged Care My Aged Care's main focus is senior citizens, and they have several facilities located in Petaling Jaya, including nursing homes and a physiotherapy centre. They also have a wide range of services, including rehabilitation, palliative care, physiotherapy, and ambulance services. Their Daycare package covers 12-hour care, with prices starting at RM10 per hour (before 7pm), and RM15 per hour (after 7pm). The Daycare package includes four meals a day, as well as stimulating activities and beds for recipients' nap times. Find more information here.
Globe and Mail
3 days ago
- Health
- Globe and Mail
Being pregnant and chronically ill means holding space for both worry and wonder
First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at There's a quiet magic in seeing your baby move on the screen for the first time – the flicker of a heartbeat, the flutter of tiny limbs. That image, grainy and surreal, felt like a quiet declaration: you're not alone in your body any more. Pregnancy, especially with a chronic illness, is never just joy. It's joy braided with fear. I live with IgA nephropathy, a chronic kidney disease that, in some cases, can progress to kidney failure. Since February, 2023, my health has been at the centre of my life. Managing my energy, tracking symptoms, preparing for diagnostics and dealing with dreaded 24-hour urine tests (which involve collecting all of your urine for an entire day, I do them almost monthly) – it became a full-time job. When I was first diagnosed, the idea of becoming a parent felt abstract at best and impossible at worst. To be stable and six months pregnant today feels like nothing short of a gift. In fact, my health has been better than expected. My kidney function hasn't declined and some of my levels are actually better than they were before pregnancy. I'm grateful for every day my body continues to co-operate. I know others in similar situations don't always get that kind of grace. I carry that knowledge with me and it humbles me daily. First Person: Our daughter's arrival filled us with joy. Becoming fathers had never been a given I think about the future a lot more now; not just mine, but my child's. What happens if my health takes a turn in five, 10 or 15 years? How do I care for a small human while managing a body that doesn't always keep pace? Chronic illness forces you to live with a certain low-grade vigilance, a readiness for symptoms to reappear or escalate. I worry that this mental space – which used to be reserved just for me – will now be shared, perhaps unequally, with the needs of a child who will rely on me completely. I also think about logistics. What happens if I need to start dialysis? What if I require a transplant one day? Concerns like this wouldn't only disrupt my own life, but also my child's school pickups, birthday parties and bedtime routines. Parenthood doesn't press pause for health crises. And then, there's the guilt. There is evidence suggesting IgA nephropathy may have a genetic component, and I wake up at 2 a.m. wondering if my child will one day sit across from a doctor and hear the same diagnosis. The idea that I may have passed on something so life-altering is deeply unsettling. Of course, no parent can guarantee perfect health, but when you know the physical and emotional toll of a condition like this, it's hard not to feel responsible. Having this disease has shaped the way I planned my days, my years, my entire sense of possibility. But pregnancy has disrupted that rhythm. My focus now extends beyond myself. There's a strange kind of freedom in that. For the first time in a long time, I'm not the sole centre of my care. There's someone else to think about – someone whose well-being matters even more than mine. That shift, while terrifying, also feels like a relief. I don't want my life to orbit around test results forever. I don't want to be consumed by what-ifs. First Person: This extraordinary gift from a living organ donor has changed my life Pregnancy has also brought joy. Real joy. I've spent so much of the past year and a half since my diagnosis managing loss – the loss of a future I thought I had, the loss of certainty, the loss of feeling in control of my body. Now, I get to build something again; someone, really. My life is expanding instead of contracting. That's not to say I'm unafraid or naive about what's ahead. I'm capable of holding both – the fear and the joy, the worry and the wonder. I think that's what motherhood is, in the end: learning to hold conflicting truths and still move forward with love. I know there will be challenges going forward. I know I'll have to learn to balance caring for myself with caring for someone else. For now, I focus on the good days. I let myself imagine my child laughing. I picture bedtime stories, muddy shoes and the mess of a life built with someone small. I let myself believe that maybe there's more waiting for me than I ever thought possible. And that belief – shaky, complicated, hard-won – is the strongest I've felt in years. Christina Mangiola lives in Toronto.
Yahoo
4 days ago
- Health
- Yahoo
I Was Told I Might Never Walk Again—so I Hiked a Volcano in Guatemala
I didn't let my lupus diagnosis stop me from hiking one of the highest peaks in Central America. It was Christmas morning when I blinked awake to the mechanical beeping of a heart monitor. At first, I thought I was dreaming. My heart thumped loudly in my chest. I tried to roll over and orient myself, but my limbs were numb, and everything around me was a blur of pale light and quiet panic. The voices outside my hospital room faded in and out until one finally broke through the fog. A man rushed in—the one who changed everything. His face said it before his words did. 'It's lupus,' he said. I didn't know what that meant. I only knew it wasn't good. I was 22 and had just been accepted to William & Mary, a top public university in the U.S. I had been the picture of health. A hiker. A wild-hearted, barefoot-loving soul who spent her weekends chasing sunrises and meaningful conversations. I had always been a thinker—someone who mapped out dreams and imagined every possible 'what if' scenario life could throw at me. But even with all that imagination, nothing prepared me for the moment I stepped out of bed one morning and collapsed into my new reality. Lupus is a chronic autoimmune disease. A body turned against itself. In a cruel twist of irony, after years of mentally picking myself apart, now my immune system was doing it for me—attacking perfectly healthy organs like they were intruders. It was a full-on war and I was losing. I was diagnosed with the worst class of it and told multiple times I might die. I almost did. The fatigue was relentless. The joint pain, unbearable. I received over nine blood transfusions just to keep me alive. The list of symptoms and restrictions, well, they were longer than my age. Tied with IVs to the hospital bed for more than a month, I remember the doctor rattling off day in and day out what I could no longer do: no more sun exposure, swimming, hugging friends, eating at restaurants, playing with animals, gardening, and walking in dirt. Even walking unassisted, they warned, might not be in the cards. I had a compromised immune system and was supposed to live in a sanitary bubble if I was to live at all. It was like someone had compiled a list of everything that made me me, then crossed it all out. I was a girl who ran and danced toward her dreams, tripping sometimes, but never stopping. Now, I was being told to sit still. But I've never been very good at doing what I'm told. And that's how I ended up 13,000 feet in the air, climbing Volcán Acatenango, one of Central America's highest peaks. The decision made no rational sense. Just months after being told I might never walk unassisted again, I was hiking into the sky on a path of volcanic ash and cloud-thin air. At the same time, it was one of the most logical decisions I ever made. Travel is so much more than movement and cool pictures in new places. It's how we reclaim pieces of ourselves. It's how we stretch beyond discomfort and fears and find out who other people are beyond our presumptions and who we are when no one else is around to define us. I started the hike alongside a group of strangers—fellow adventurers whose names and stories I didn't know, but whose silent grit matched mine. There was something exhilarating about trekking next to people who knew nothing of my diagnosis, only my determination. After our bus dropped us off at the beginning of the trail, my heart sank. From the start, it was a slow, burning, upward climb. I am so glad I had no idea what lay ahead because I might have turned around right then and there. We passed through five microclimates in a day—humid jungle, alpine forest, wind-swept ridges, dry volcanic fields, and a cloud-pierced summit. Each shift was like stepping into another world entirely. As we climbed, Acatenango's landscape shifted beneath our feet. The farmlands gave way to dense forests. The air thinned. My legs burned. My lungs ached. I slowed. And slowed again. I was often last in line, stopping frequently to rest, my legs almost crumbling under me. And yet, I was still moving. Stray dogs are abundant in the farmland, and a beautiful chocolate shepherd shared the journey with us. I soon realized what I hadn't shared with anyone, he probably knew. Out of the 20 of us, he stuck by my side, stopping when I paused and walking together with me when I began again. When we reached base camp at 12,000 feet, I was shaking. My body throbbed. The trail narrowed and a dark windy fog quickly set in. I was surprised when our guide said our camp was just ahead because I could see nothing, not even a glowing light. It was icy cold. Where was Fuego, the elusive pillar of angry fire? We had been told there would be accommodations at the top. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry when I saw a stack of used mattresses, box springs, and shared sleeping bags. There was nothing sanitary about it, but it felt more healing than the hospital bed. We sipped hot chocolate around a flicker of a flame. I had come to see lava and was shivering around fading coals. But our guide was confident and told us we should wake up at 4 a.m. if we wanted to hike the remainder of the way to see Fuego up close and active. I had plenty of experience staying awake through the night from my weeks in the hospital. I had no idea how I would pull myself out of bed this time. Luckily, I didn't even have to set an alarm. At 2 a.m, I awoke to cold, wet slobber. The puppy that walked with me had curled up on my pillow. Having shared the trek, he wanted to share the warmth, too. I was more than a little annoyed and sat straight up, trying to drag him off my corner of the mattress. I kicked open the wooden door of our makeshift hut to shove him out and came face-to-face with Fuego. In the deep mist of the night, I had no idea our camp was clinging to a slab of cliff right in front of the summit. The earth growled and Acatenango's fiery twin erupted in the distance. It was bright and brilliant and alive and somehow almost outdone by the thousands of shimmering stars framing it. The deep fog that had suffocated everything was peeled back like a curtain and I realized all the beauty that had been hiding underneath. We rose for the summit. The final push. The hardest part. What seemed so close was a full three hours away still. A pillar of lava burst into the sky, glowing against the dusk. Around me, others gasped. Many reached for their phones and cameras. I stood in stunned silence. I wanted this image and memory etched in my mind before I tainted it with a camera lens. The eruption lit up the sky again and again throughout the night and early morning. I had barely slept. It was pitch black, and we were pushing through heavy sand and ash now. Two steps forward, a half step back. Mounds of crumbling dirt rose on either side, forming a slithering trail as we dipped down into the ravine and steadily rose up the other side. There was a moment, somewhere above the clouds, when I paused and turned around. The mountain where we camped, Acatenango, towered behind me, massive and ancient. Beneath its surface were deep, dark scars—grooves cut through the rock by old lava flows, now overgrown with stubborn green. I stood there, breathless from exertion and awe, already dripping sweat. I realized something that made me pause: The looming walls of dirt both engulfing me and forming my own path were the same. From the fog of sickness and the sting of IV needles, I was now coursing through the hazy vein of the mountain. The same burning force that had once destroyed this path had also shaped it—created it, even. And now, I traced it. My own body, too, bore scars—seen and unseen. Pain had carved through me, but it had also made this journey possible. I wasn't walking despite my pain. I was walking with it and becoming something through it. I was, by every definition, weak. But I was so strong. I was breathing hard—nearly wheezing—as the icy wind whipped against my face. My legs were leaden. My fingers were stiff and swollen. I stopped more than I moved. But I wasn't alone. Step by step, I made it to the top. There—at 13,045 feet—the sun rose above the world in every color imaginable—and some not even the most creative mind could fathom. We stood in silence as clouds drifted below us and light spilled across the neighboring volcanic ridges—Agua Volcano to the left, Pacaya to the right. I was standing on Fuego in the shadow of Acatenango. Ironically, the name means 'Walled Place,' and here, I felt the walls placed around me come crumbling down. All I kept thinking was how everyone told me I couldn't—and how they weren't here to see this view. I reached my grimy, dirt-covered hand down to pet the dog in blatant defiance of my instructions not to be around or touch animals. I didn't ever want to descend. The way down was almost harder than the trail up. I was slipping, sliding, and tumbling, joy erupting inside me. Whether or not we realize it, we each travel every day—through grief, joy, and fire. We each have our own personal Fuegos and Acatenangos to face. Mine just happened to be a real one. When I returned from Guatemala, my lupus didn't vanish. But I proved that 'can't' is just a word. Acatenango didn't cure me, but it reminded me my journey didn't end in a hospital bed. It started there. It was Christmas morning when I blinked awake to the beeping of a heart monitor, my body a battlefield and my future a blur. But it was through the mist of the mountain where I really opened my eyes. They told me I'd never hike again. That I might never walk unassisted. That I would have to live a smaller life, if I lived at all. But they weren't there when the sky split open and fire danced across it. They didn't see me rise through ash and altitude, gasping and shaking, clinging to a mountain that had known its own share of eruptions. They didn't see the girl with IV scars, windburned cheeks, and dirt under her fingernails reach the summit with a dog by her side and a defiant heart in her chest. I didn't conquer the mountain—I bled into it. Walking on the wounds it once carried, I learned how to live with mine. And when Fuego erupted, lighting the sky like a pulse, I knew I would never be the same. Not because I reached the summit, but because I learned I could keep rising—even while breaking. Read the original article on Travel & Leisure Solve the daily Crossword
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Travel + Leisure
4 days ago
- Health
- Travel + Leisure
I Was Told I Might Never Walk Again—so I Hiked a Volcano in Guatemala
It was Christmas morning when I blinked awake to the mechanical beeping of a heart monitor. At first, I thought I was dreaming. My heart thumped loudly in my chest. I tried to roll over and orient myself, but my limbs were numb, and everything around me was a blur of pale light and quiet panic. The voices outside my hospital room faded in and out until one finally broke through the fog. A man rushed in—the one who changed everything. His face said it before his words did. 'It's lupus,' he said. I didn't know what that meant. I only knew it wasn't good. I was 22 and had just been accepted to William & Mary, a top public university in the U.S. I had been the picture of health. A hiker. A wild-hearted, barefoot-loving soul who spent her weekends chasing sunrises and meaningful conversations. I had always been a thinker—someone who mapped out dreams and imagined every possible 'what if' scenario life could throw at me. But even with all that imagination, nothing prepared me for the moment I stepped out of bed one morning and collapsed into my new reality. Tess while dealing with her diagnoses. Tess Moormans/Life Through A Lense Lupus is a chronic autoimmune disease. A body turned against itself. In a cruel twist of irony, after years of mentally picking myself apart, now my immune system was doing it for me—attacking perfectly healthy organs like they were intruders. It was a full-on war and I was losing. I was diagnosed with the worst class of it and told multiple times I might die. I almost did. The fatigue was relentless. The joint pain, unbearable. I received over nine blood transfusions just to keep me alive. The list of symptoms and restrictions, well, they were longer than my age. Tied with IVs to the hospital bed for more than a month, I remember the doctor rattling off day in and day out what I could no longer do: no more sun exposure, swimming, hugging friends, eating at restaurants, playing with animals, gardening, and walking in dirt. Even walking unassisted, they warned, might not be in the cards. I had a compromised immune system and was supposed to live in a sanitary bubble if I was to live at all. It was like someone had compiled a list of everything that made me me , then crossed it all out. I was a girl who ran and danced toward her dreams, tripping sometimes, but never stopping. Now, I was being told to sit still. But I've never been very good at doing what I'm told. And that's how I ended up 13,000 feet in the air, climbing Volcán Acatenango, one of Central America's highest peaks. The decision made no rational sense. Just months after being told I might never walk unassisted again, I was hiking into the sky on a path of volcanic ash and cloud-thin air. At the same time, it was one of the most logical decisions I ever made. Travel is so much more than movement and cool pictures in new places. It's how we reclaim pieces of ourselves. It's how we stretch beyond discomfort and fears and find out who other people are beyond our presumptions and who we are when no one else is around to define us. View of Volcán Acatenango seen through the clouds. Tess Moormans/Life Through A Lense I started the hike alongside a group of strangers—fellow adventurers whose names and stories I didn't know, but whose silent grit matched mine. There was something exhilarating about trekking next to people who knew nothing of my diagnosis, only my determination. After our bus dropped us off at the beginning of the trail, my heart sank. From the start, it was a slow, burning, upward climb. I am so glad I had no idea what lay ahead because I might have turned around right then and there. We passed through five microclimates in a day—humid jungle, alpine forest, wind-swept ridges, dry volcanic fields, and a cloud-pierced summit. Each shift was like stepping into another world entirely. As we climbed, Acatenango's landscape shifted beneath our feet. The farmlands gave way to dense forests. The air thinned. My legs burned. My lungs ached. I slowed. And slowed again. I was often last in line, stopping frequently to rest, my legs almost crumbling under me. And yet, I was still moving. Stray dogs are abundant in the farmland, and a beautiful chocolate shepherd shared the journey with us. I soon realized what I hadn't shared with anyone, he probably knew. Out of the 20 of us, he stuck by my side, stopping when I paused and walking together with me when I began again. The friendly stray dog who stuck by Tess's side; Hiking up Volcán Acatenango. Tess Moormans/Life Through A Lense When we reached base camp at 12,000 feet, I was shaking. My body throbbed. The trail narrowed and a dark windy fog quickly set in. I was surprised when our guide said our camp was just ahead because I could see nothing, not even a glowing light. It was icy cold. Where was Fuego, the elusive pillar of angry fire? We had been told there would be accommodations at the top. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry when I saw a stack of used mattresses, box springs, and shared sleeping bags. There was nothing sanitary about it, but it felt more healing than the hospital bed. We sipped hot chocolate around a flicker of a flame. I had come to see lava and was shivering around fading coals. But our guide was confident and told us we should wake up at 4 a.m. if we wanted to hike the remainder of the way to see Fuego up close and active. I had plenty of experience staying awake through the night from my weeks in the hospital. I had no idea how I would pull myself out of bed this time. Luckily, I didn't even have to set an alarm. At 2 a.m, I awoke to cold, wet slobber. The puppy that walked with me had curled up on my pillow. Having shared the trek, he wanted to share the warmth, too. I was more than a little annoyed and sat straight up, trying to drag him off my corner of the mattress. I kicked open the wooden door of our makeshift hut to shove him out and came face-to-face with Fuego. In the deep mist of the night, I had no idea our camp was clinging to a slab of cliff right in front of the summit. The earth growled and Acatenango's fiery twin erupted in the distance. It was bright and brilliant and alive and somehow almost outdone by the thousands of shimmering stars framing it. The deep fog that had suffocated everything was peeled back like a curtain and I realized all the beauty that had been hiding underneath. We rose for the summit. The final push. The hardest part. What seemed so close was a full three hours away still. A pillar of lava burst into the sky, glowing against the dusk. Around me, others gasped. Many reached for their phones and cameras. I stood in stunned silence. I wanted this image and memory etched in my mind before I tainted it with a camera lens. The eruption lit up the sky again and again throughout the night and early morning. I had barely slept. It was pitch black, and we were pushing through heavy sand and ash now. Two steps forward, a half step back. Mounds of crumbling dirt rose on either side, forming a slithering trail as we dipped down into the ravine and steadily rose up the other side. There was a moment, somewhere above the clouds, when I paused and turned around. The mountain where we camped, Acatenango, towered behind me, massive and ancient. Beneath its surface were deep, dark scars—grooves cut through the rock by old lava flows, now overgrown with stubborn green. I stood there, breathless from exertion and awe, already dripping sweat. I realized something that made me pause: The looming walls of dirt both engulfing me and forming my own path were the same. From the fog of sickness and the sting of IV needles, I was now coursing through the hazy vein of the mountain. The same burning force that had once destroyed this path had also shaped it—created it, even. And now, I traced it. My own body, too, bore scars—seen and unseen. Pain had carved through me, but it had also made this journey possible. I wasn't walking despite my pain. I was walking with it and becoming something through it. I was, by every definition, weak. But I was so strong. I was breathing hard—nearly wheezing—as the icy wind whipped against my face. My legs were leaden. My fingers were stiff and swollen. I stopped more than I moved. But I wasn't alone. Step by step, I made it to the top. There—at 13,045 feet—the sun rose above the world in every color imaginable—and some not even the most creative mind could fathom. Aerial view of Antigua, Guatemala. Tess Moormans/Life Through A Lense We stood in silence as clouds drifted below us and light spilled across the neighboring volcanic ridges—Agua Volcano to the left, Pacaya to the right. I was standing on Fuego in the shadow of Acatenango. Ironically, the name means 'Walled Place,' and here, I felt the walls placed around me come crumbling down. All I kept thinking was how everyone told me I couldn't—and how they weren't here to see this view. I reached my grimy, dirt-covered hand down to pet the dog in blatant defiance of my instructions not to be around or touch animals. I didn't ever want to descend. The way down was almost harder than the trail up. I was slipping, sliding, and tumbling, joy erupting inside me. Whether or not we realize it, we each travel every day—through grief, joy, and fire. We each have our own personal Fuegos and Acatenangos to face. Mine just happened to be a real one. When I returned from Guatemala, my lupus didn't vanish. But I proved that 'can't' is just a word. Acatenango didn't cure me, but it reminded me my journey didn't end in a hospital bed. It started there. It was Christmas morning when I blinked awake to the beeping of a heart monitor, my body a battlefield and my future a blur. But it was through the mist of the mountain where I really opened my eyes. They told me I'd never hike again. That I might never walk unassisted. That I would have to live a smaller life, if I lived at all. But they weren't there when the sky split open and fire danced across it. They didn't see me rise through ash and altitude, gasping and shaking, clinging to a mountain that had known its own share of eruptions. They didn't see the girl with IV scars, windburned cheeks, and dirt under her fingernails reach the summit with a dog by her side and a defiant heart in her chest. I didn't conquer the mountain—I bled into it. Walking on the wounds it once carried, I learned how to live with mine. And when Fuego erupted, lighting the sky like a pulse, I knew I would never be the same. Not because I reached the summit, but because I learned I could keep rising—even while breaking.
