Warriors and Survivors - 243

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 243

I am Rukh Yusuf, Clinical Pharmacist, also specialized in Total Parenteral Nutrition and Bone Marrow Transplant. I have worked in the Pediatric Oncology unit of a public hospital. The mission of this blog is to bring to you the real-life stories of child patients suffering from cancer. Cancer is still a difficult disease to handle and treat. However, when it strikes the children, some so young that they cannot even speak, their agony is beyond expression and words. Let us pray especially for children suffering from cancer for early and complete remission. May Allah shower His Merciful Blessings upon them. Aameen. 

Faisal’s Story: An Eight-Year-Old Boy Facing What He Cannot Understand

Eight-year-old Faisal had always lived a simple, predictable life in Sialkot. His days usually revolved around school, cricket in the narrow street outside his home, and teasing his younger brother while sharing small responsibilities with his older sister. Nothing in his routine could predict that life could shift so suddenly, or that a quiet diagnosis in a hospital room would change the entire map of his family’s future.

Just a month ago, his parents noticed he was more tired than usual. He came home from school complaining of headaches and wanting to sleep instead of playing. They assumed it was the usual childhood fatigue or maybe a seasonal infection. After all, children fall sick often, and it usually passes. But when the tiredness became more visible, and he started losing interest in the little joys he once chased so eagerly, they decided to take him for tests. That single decision, made with the calmness of routine concern, led them into a world they never imagined one where the word “leukemia” became part of their everyday vocabulary.

Faisal has T-cell leukemia. He doesn’t know what the word means. He only knows that his parents look different, worried in a way they try to hide but cannot. He knows he suddenly has to visit a bigger hospital, far from Sialkot, where doctors use long names for medicines and where nurses often say, “This might hurt a little,” before inserting needles that make him wince. For him, life has become a mixture of hospital corridors, waiting rooms, travel, and the strange quietness that follows him wherever he goes.

His parents, both working in a school back in Sialkot, carry a different kind of burden. They understand the word. They know T-cell leukemia is serious, unpredictable, and demanding medically, financially, and emotionally. For a middle class family, the diagnosis does not come alone; it brings expenses, travel, long waiting hours, and the uncomfortable fear of the unknown. Each trip to the city means time away from work, loss of income, and added transportation costs. Yet, there is no option. Treatment cannot wait.

At night, after Faisal is asleep, they talk softly, trying to make sense of decisions they never expected to face. Should they borrow money? Should one parent stop working temporarily? How will they divide attention among their three children? They are used to planning monthly budgets, not hospital stays. They are used to guiding students in classrooms, not managing medical files and treatment schedules. Still, they show up for him every day, learning to navigate this new life because there is no other choice.

Faisal’s siblings sense the change before anyone explains it to them. His older sister notices how their parents whisper in the kitchen. She sees her mother packing bags at odd hours and her father returning home later than usual. She doesn’t fully know what leukemia means, but she understands that something heavy has entered their home. At school, she tries to stay focused, but her mind drifts back to her brother. She wonders why he looks so tired now and why he doesn’t run to her when she comes back from school anymore.

His younger brother reacts differently. He asks questions many of them. “Why isn’t Faisal coming to play?” “Why does he go to the doctor so much?” “Is he okay now?” Adults try to keep answers simple, but children understand more from silence than words. He feels the emptiness in their small living room when Faisal stays in bed instead of playing with him. He feels the tension, even if he cannot label it.

For Faisal himself, the world has become confusing. He doesn’t know why strangers in white coats speak to him in gentle tones. He doesn’t know why everyone tells him to be “strong.” He only knows that he wants his normal days back his school bag, his cricket bat, the evening sunlight falling across the street where he used to chase his friends. He misses the certainty of routine. And though he cannot name it, he feels life slowing down around him, as if the world has become something he must now tolerate rather than explore.

The family, meanwhile, moves forward one day at a time. They do not speak in dramatic terms. They do not call themselves strong or brave. They are simply a middle-class household trying to keep life moving while absorbing a shock that has altered every corner of their reality. The illness brings fear, but also a sense of quiet adjustment. They ration their strength, reserving it for doctor visits, for difficult phone calls, for moments when they must appear calm in front of the children.

For them, hope is not loud. It is not made of big statements or grand promises. It shows itself gently in the way Faisal smiles on a good day, in the relief of a stable lab report, in the softness with which his mother wakes him for an appointment, or in the steady hand of his father guiding him through a hospital corridor.

This is not a story of dramatic courage. It is a story of a family learning to live beside uncertainty. A family who wakes up every morning wishing that things were different yet doing everything they can within the limits of their means. A child who cannot understand the disease shaping his days, and siblings who stand at the edges of it, trying to make sense of the new silence in their home.

And somewhere within all of this between the long travels, the medical bills, the quiet fears, and the small glimmers of routine this family keeps moving, hoping for a future where Faisal can return to being just an eight-year-old boy again.

Prayers for Faisal and all the sick children and their families who have to face this pain of cancer. May Allah make it easy for them. Aameen

Warriors and Survivors - 242

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 242

I am Rukh Yusuf, Clinical Pharmacist, also specialized in Total Parenteral Nutrition and Bone Marrow Transplant. I have worked in the Pediatric Oncology unit of a public hospital. The mission of this blog is to bring to you the real-life stories of child patients suffering from cancer. Cancer is still a difficult disease to handle and treat. However, when it strikes the children, some so young that they cannot even speak, their agony is beyond expression and words. Let us pray especially for children suffering from cancer for early and complete remission. May Allah shower His Merciful Blessings upon them. Aameen. 

Ali’s Journey: A Young Boy Facing Leukemia

Ali, a lively boy from Sahiwal is seven years old, whose days used to be filled with the simple joys of childhood, running around in the courtyard. Playing cricket with neighborhood friends and sharing small adventures with his little sister. He loved school and enjoyed learning new things, though sometimes he would come home tired from long days of study and play. His laughter was frequent, his curiosity endless, and his parents often marveled at his energy and imagination.

All of this began to change quietly. Ali started feeling unusually tired, losing his appetite, and developing bruises on his arms and legs. Initially, his parents thought it was minor perhaps a fall while playing or just fatigue from school. But when the bruises became more noticeable and his fatigue worsened, they knew something was wrong. After consulting a local doctor, Ali was referred to Lahore for further evaluation. The diagnosis that followed was one no parent ever anticipates: acute leukemia.

The news hit Ali’s parents like a wave. His mother, who had spent her days caring for the family and managing the household, felt a deep sense of helplessness. His father, the family’s primary source of financial support, faced the sudden reality of balancing work, hospital trips, and the growing emotional burden. Overnight, their lives shifted from routine familiarity to hospital corridors, lab reports, and treatment schedules.

For Ali, the world became a series of hospital visits, blood tests, and unfamiliar procedures. Each day brought new challenges: injections, IV lines, and the occasional painful procedure. Despite this, he displayed a quiet resilience. Sometimes he would ask simple questions about the medications or tests, mixing curiosity with fear, but he always tried to remain brave for his parents. On the good days, he found small moments of joy.  He likes reading a story, playing a brief game, or enjoying his favorite snack brought brief respite from the hospital routine.

The family’s daily life has been restructured entirely around his care. His mother now spends long hours by his side, monitoring his medications, communicating with doctors, and comforting him through moments of fear or discomfort. His father makes frequent trips to Lahore, balancing his work with the constant worry about Ali’s condition. Nights are often long, filled with concern and uncertainty, but they try to hold on to moments of normalcy, reading stories together, talking about school, or sharing a small laugh when possible.

Ali’s diagnosis has also brought into focus the emotional toll on the wider family. His younger sister misses the carefree time she once had with her brother. Extended family and friends, while supportive, can only partially ease the anxiety and exhaustion that pervade the household. Financial concerns, travel challenges, and the long-term uncertainties of treatment weigh heavily on his parents’ minds.

Despite these hardships, Ali demonstrates a remarkable quiet strength. He has moments of playfulness, curiosity, and humor, and these remind his parents that he is still a child, not defined by his illness. It is in these small moments Ali’s shy smile after a painful injection, his curiosity about a storybook, or his laughter during a brief game that the family finds hope and resilience.

Ali’s story highlights the multifaceted impact of pediatric leukemia. It is a disease that affects not just the child but the entire family, bringing emotional, logistical, and financial challenges. It also underscores the importance of early detection, timely treatment, and the support networks that families need from medical teams to community resources.

This story serves as a reminder of the resilience of children and families navigating such illnesses and the urgent need for awareness and support. Every child like Ali deserves access to medical care, understanding, and a community that stands with them. Their journey is difficult, but it is also filled with moments that reveal strength, love, and quiet endurance qualities that are often unseen but deeply impactful.

Ali’s journey is just beginning, and while the road ahead is uncertain, the love and care surrounding him provide a foundation of hope. His story calls for empathy, awareness, and action from all of us to ensure that children with leukemia and their families do not walk this path alone.

Prayers for Ali and all the sick children and their families who have to face this pain of cancer. May Allah make it easy for them. Aameen

Warriors and Survivors - 241

 Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 241

I am Rukh Yusuf, Clinical Pharmacist, also specialized in Total Parenteral Nutrition and Bone Marrow Transplant. I have worked in the Pediatric Oncology unit of a public hospital. The mission of this blog is to bring to you the real-life stories of child patients suffering from cancer. Cancer is still a difficult disease to handle and treat. However, when it strikes the children, some so young that they cannot even speak, their agony is beyond expression and words. Let us pray especially for children suffering from cancer for early and complete remission. May Allah shower His Merciful Blessings upon them. Aameen. 

Zainab’s Quiet Battle

Zainab is only nine, yet her world has recently shifted in ways she cannot fully name. A few weeks ago, her parents sat in a small hospital room and heard the words acute B-cell leukemia. They were told it’s a cancer of the blood and bone marrow, a condition where abnormal cells multiply faster than the body can manage. The explanation was brief, but for Zainab, it was more confusing than frightening. For her family, it felt like the ground had slipped.

Before all this, she was an active child who loved drawing houses with long winding roads and bright yellow suns. She had a habit of humming while coloring, something that filled the home with a soft, cheerful presence. Now, the humming has quieted. Not gone, but quieter, almost as if she’s saving her energy for something much bigger.

Zainab doesn’t fully grasp what leukemia means. She knows it has something to do with her blood, something about cells not behaving the way they should. What she understands most is the visible change: trips to the hospital, long hours in waiting rooms, adults speaking in careful tones, and the sting of needles she has grown to expect rather than fear. She asks simple questions How long will I have to stay here? Will my hair grow back soon? Can I still go to school? and her parents try to answer without showing the heaviness they carry.

Her mother has started noticing the small details she once took for granted, the way Zainab adjusts her scarf when she feels cold, the way she holds her father’s hand a little tighter during appointments, the fatigue that settles into her shoulders even after a short walk. Children aren’t supposed to be this weary. Yet Zainab moves through each day with a sort of innocent acceptance, not because she is brave in the way adults often describe children with illness, but because she simply doesn’t know a different way to be.

Her father struggles in silence. He spends evenings reading about treatment options, outcomes, and survival rates, trying to prepare himself for conversations he wishes he never had to learn. Every sentence is a reminder that no doctor can promise a smooth path or a guaranteed cure. He hides his worry behind gentle smiles, but Zainab notices his tired eyes. She doesn’t ask about them, instead, she rests her head on his arm whenever he seems too quiet, offering the only comfort she knows.

The family’s daily life has reorganized itself around hospital schedules. Meals are quicker, nights are longer and plans now come with disclaimers, if Zainab feels well enough. Her siblings, though young, sense the change. They draw pictures for her and leave them on her bedside table. Some mornings she looks at them and smiles, other mornings she turns away, overwhelmed by a sadness she can’t yet explain.

One of the hardest realities for her parents is the uncertainty. Leukemia treatment is long, and while medicine has come far, no one pretends it is simple or predictable. They’ve been told there will be good days and difficult ones, days when she wants to talk and days when she won’t say much at all. Accepting that lack of control is a slow, painful process. It’s a strange kind of grief, mourning the ease of a past life while trying to be hopeful about the future.

What stands out most in Zainab’s story is not heroism but the quietness of her experience. She doesn’t describe her feelings in grand words, she expresses them in small gestures, a hesitant smile, a longer pause before answering, a sudden wish to sit close to her mother for no clear reason. These moments reveal the weight she carries, even if she cannot articulate it.

Illness, especially one as serious as cancer, reshapes more than the patient’s life. It changes the atmosphere of a home, altering routines, emotions, and expectations. Zainab’s family has learned that fear and love often sit side by side, and that supporting a child through such an illness means navigating both constantly.

Yet within all this, there are still moments of warmth. Zainab still asks for her favorite strawberry milk. She still doodles small hearts on paper when she feels up to it. She still laughs softly when her younger brother mispronounces long words. These tiny fragments of normal life become treasures, reminders that even in the presence of uncertainty, there are pieces of her childhood that continue to shine through.

Zainab’s journey is not a story of dramatic triumph, nor is it one of defeat. It is the story of a child learning to exist within the boundaries of a difficult diagnosis, and a family learning how to hold her through it. It is a quiet, tender struggle one marked by love, worry, and the hope that tomorrow will be a little gentler than today.

Prayers for Zainab and all the sick children and their families who have to face this pain of cancer. May Allah make it easy for them. Aameen

Warriors and Survivors - 240

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 240

I am Rukh Yusuf, Clinical Pharmacist, also specialized in Total Parenteral Nutrition and Bone Marrow Transplant. I have worked in the Pediatric Oncology unit of a public hospital. The mission of this blog is to bring to you the real-life stories of child patients suffering from cancer. Cancer is still a difficult disease to handle and treat. However, when it strikes the children, some so young that they cannot even speak, their agony is beyond expression and words. Let us pray especially for children suffering from cancer for early and complete remission. May Allah shower His Merciful Blessings upon them. Aameen. 

Anam’s Story: A Small Girl Carrying a Heavy Illness

Anam is only five, but she has already learned more about hospitals, needles, and waiting rooms than most adults ever will. She was diagnosed with thalassemia major when she was four, a diagnosis her parents had never heard before, yet it changed the rhythm of their home overnight.

Thalassemia major is not just a condition that limits hemoglobin. It reshapes childhood. It replaces school mornings with hospital visits, replaces playtime with transfusion schedules, and turns a young girl’s life into a cycle of blood bags, iron chelation medicines, and constant monitoring. For Anam, this has become a normal routine, even though it is anything but normal.

Her parents describe the first months after diagnosis as a blur. They were told she would need lifetime blood transfusions every few weeks. They were told about iron overload, medicines to control it, strict monitoring, risks of infections, and the emotional toll of constant hospital care. They tried to absorb it all while watching their child sit quietly, holding her father’s hand, not understanding why the world around her had suddenly changed.

In many low - and middle-income countries, thalassemia is common due to high carrier rates, sometimes affecting 5% to 10% of the population. In some regions of South Asia, the Middle East, and parts of Africa, thousands of children like Anam rely on regular blood transfusions simply to stay alive. In developed world, carrier screening programs, better diagnostics, and more consistent health systems have lowered the number of new severe cases. Even then, children still face the long-term burden of treatment, but they often have more stable access to blood banks, chelation therapy, and follow up care. The contrast is stark, and families in developing regions feel that gap deeply.

For Anam’s parents, the biggest struggle has been securing regular transfusions on time. Each visit comes with the same fears: Will we find a matching unit today? Will the hospital have enough blood stock? Will the medicines be available this month? They have learned that caring for a child with thalassemia requires not just resilience but also a kind of quiet courage and patience, one that must be renewed with every hospital trip.

Some weeks, her father takes time off work and loses part of his day’s earnings. Other times, her mother makes long phone calls to blood banks and local volunteers the night before a scheduled transfusion, trying to arrange a donor just in case the hospital supply runs low. There were times when they waited for hours in overcrowded clinics, Anam resting her head on her mother’s lap, tired not only from low hemoglobin but from the long journey itself.

Chelation therapy, essential to control iron overload adds another layer of challenge. These medications can be expensive, require long term use, and sometimes cause side effects that are difficult for a small child to tolerate. Anam’s parents juggle these decisions carefully, often asking other families for advice and adjusting doses under medical guidance. Small details, finding pharmacies that stock the medication, keeping her on schedule, convincing her to take each dose, become part of their daily life.

Still, they say Anam rarely complains. She winces during IV insertions, grips her mother’s kurta tightly, and sometimes cries from the discomfort, but once the transfusion begins, she settles. She listens to stories, watches cartoons on her father’s phone, or simply sleeps. A few hours later, her cheeks look a little brighter. Her parents always notice that small change, it is the sign they hold onto.

Across many countries, organizations and public sector programs try to support children like Anam. Regional thalassemia foundations help coordinate donors and provide counseling. Some governments supply free or subsidized chelation therapy. Public hospitals set up dedicated transfusion centers, and local nonprofits organize blood drives. These efforts do not erase the illness, but they ease parts of the journey. Anam’s family has benefited from volunteer led blood donation groups more than once, and they say those moments feel like a gift from strangers.

But despite all support, the emotional weight remains. Childhood illness does not only affect the patient it reshapes entire families. Anam’s parents plan their weeks around transfusions. They track her lab values, budget for her hospital visit, and try to maintain a sense of normalcy at home. They do everything quietly, without dramatizing their struggles, because they want Anam to feel like she is still just a little girl.

And she is. She loves coloring books, her pink slippers, and the swing in the small park near their house. On days when her hemoglobin is higher, she plays a little longer and laughs more freely. Her parents say those are the moments that keep them moving forward.

Anam’s life is not defined by thalassemia, but by the strength she shows while living with it. And her story is one of thousands of children whose childhoods are shaped by a condition they did nothing to deserve, yet they face it with a quiet patience and bravery that humbles everyone around them.

Anam’s life is shaped by thalassemia, but it is not limited by it. What stands out most is not the illness itself, but the way she carries it without bitterness, without asking why, simply moving through each hospital visit with the kind of resilience children rarely get credit for. Her parents often say they learn strength from her. On good days, when she runs a little faster or laughs a little louder, they feel as if the whole world has eased for a moment. Those small, ordinary moments are what keep them going. They hold onto them quietly, hoping for more days when Anam can just be a child, free from hospitals, needles, and the weight she never chose to carry.

Prayers for Anam and all the sick children and their families who have to face this pain of cancer. May Allah make it easy for them. Aameen

Warriors and Survivors - 239

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 239

I am Rukh Yusuf, Clinical Pharmacist, also specialized in Total Parenteral Nutrition and Bone Marrow Transplant. I have worked in the Pediatric Oncology unit of a public hospital. The mission of this blog is to bring to you the real-life stories of child patients suffering from cancer. Cancer is still a difficult disease to handle and treat. However, when it strikes the children, some so young that they cannot even speak, their agony is beyond expression and words. Let us pray especially for children suffering from cancer for early and complete remission. May Allah shower His Merciful Blessings upon them. Aameen. 

Mahad’s Story: The Silence Between Hope and Fear

When eight-year-old Mahad first fell ill, his parents thought it was just another passing infection,  a fever that would fade with a few days of rest. He was an active boy, full of curiosity, the middle child who always managed to find his own space between his older sister’s seriousness and his younger brother’s endless chatter. But this time, the fever didn’t fade. His tiredness lingered, his once bright eyes seemed dull, and soon the bruises on his legs began to worry his mother.

The day the doctor said acute leukemia, everything went quiet. It wasn’t the kind of silence that follows good news or even confusion, it was heavy, still, and hollow. His mother’s heart pounded in her chest, searching for something, anything, to hold onto. His father, though composed on the outside, felt an ache that words couldn’t reach. In that single moment, their world, once predictable and safe, turned into one filled with uncertainty and fear.

Mahad didn’t understand much at first. Cancer was just a word he had heard adults whisper about. But when he noticed how carefully his mother watched him, how softly his father spoke, and how his siblings grew quieter around him, he sensed that something had changed. He asked once, “Am I going to miss school for long?” His mother smiled  the kind of smile that hides tears and told him he would go back soon. But deep inside, she didn’t know when or if things would ever feel normal again.

The hospital became their second home. The smell of antiseptic, the quiet hum of machines, and the sight of other children with masks and IV lines became part of Mahad’s new world. Each visit brought needles, blood draws, and the fatigue that made him too tired to play. Some days, he would stare out the hospital window, watching the cars move outside, wondering if any of them carried his friends on their way to school.

His parents tried to stay strong  they knew he watched them closely. His father began reading him stories about brave children and superheroes. Mahad listened, but he didn’t see himself as a hero. He missed running barefoot in the garden, laughing with his siblings, and sleeping without the smell of medicine around him. He wasn’t thinking about bravery he was just thinking about getting back to his old self.

The nights were the hardest for his mother. After everyone fell asleep, she sat beside his bed, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. She prayed silently, asking for strength, for healing, for a miracle. Her mind went through endless questions Why him? Did we miss something? How do we protect him from all this? There was fear, guilt, and an unbearable helplessness that she had never felt before.

His father, too, carried the weight differently. He spent long hours at the hospital and even longer nights staring at medical reports he barely understood. A man who had always known how to fix things now stood in front of something he couldn’t control. Sometimes, he would step out into the hospital corridor just to breathe  a long, deep breath that was part prayer, part surrender.

Mahad noticed the fatigue in their eyes, even if they tried to hide it. Once, he told his father softly, “Don’t worry, Baba, I’ll be fine.” It wasn’t bravado or denial  it was his gentle way of comforting them, of trying to make things a little easier for the people who loved him most.

Every round of treatment brought its own rhythm moments of improvement, followed by days of exhaustion. The doctors explained things in careful tones, always balancing hope with caution. The family learned to celebrate small victories: a day without fever, a meal he could eat without nausea, a moment when he smiled again.

But beneath the hope, there was always fear  the fear that comes when life no longer follows the rules you thought it did. The fear of losing a child, the fear of the unknown, and the fear that even the best doctors might not have all the answers.

Mahad’s mother once said to a nurse, “It feels like we’re holding our breath all the time.” The nurse nodded she had seen that look before in many parents’ eyes. It’s the look of people walking a path they never imagined, one that tests every ounce of strength and faith they have.

And yet, during the uncertainty, there were moments of grace. Mahad’s laughter, faint but still there, would fill the hospital room like sunlight. His siblings would draw pictures for him, taping them to the walls beside his bed. His parents learned to hold each day gently, without rushing ahead.

This is not a story about triumph or declarations of strength. It is a story of love that trembles but doesn’t give up, of a child facing a reality far too big for his years, and of parents who learn that courage often means showing up  even when nothing is certain.

Mahad’s journey is still unfolding. Each day brings both fear and hope. His family lives between them, holding on to every smile, every quiet moment, and every breath that reminds them that life, even in its most fragile form, is worth holding onto.

Prayers for Mahad and all the sick children and their families who have to face this pain of cancer. May Allah make it easy for them. Aameen

Warriors and Survivors - 238

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 238

I am Rukh Yusuf, Clinical Pharmacist, also specialized in Total Parenteral Nutrition and Bone Marrow Transplant. I have worked in the Pediatric Oncology unit of a public hospital. The mission of this blog is to bring to you the real-life stories of child patients suffering from cancer. Cancer is still a difficult disease to handle and treat. However, when it strikes the children, some so young that they cannot even speak, their agony is beyond expression and words. Let us pray especially for children suffering from cancer for early and complete remission. May Allah shower His Merciful Blessings upon them. Aameen. 

Five year old Babar having a quiet battle

Babar is a five-year-old boy from a small village in Swat. His father grows wheat and corn on a small patch of land that barely sustains the family of six. The days in their home once followed a simple rhythm, Babar running through the fields, chasing chickens, laughing as his elder sister tried to catch him before evening prayers. His mother says he was the liveliest of all her children, always humming songs under his breath and curious about everything from how seeds grow to why the clouds move.

It began quietly, as such things often do. One morning, his mother noticed that Babar wasn’t as playful as usual. He complained of pain in his legs and didn’t want to eat his breakfast. They thought it was a passing illness perhaps weakness from the changing weather or another bout of seasonal flu. The local dispenser gave him vitamins and syrup. But his energy kept fading. Within a few weeks, his laughter turned into a tired silence. His skin grew pale, and bruises began appearing on his arms without reason.

At night, his parents whispered their worries. His father thought maybe it was the “bad air” from the nearby fields or something he ate. They tried home remedies, prayers, and visits to the village clinic. But nothing helped. When his fever persisted and his gums started bleeding one evening, they rushed to the district hospital. The doctors there looked concerned and advised them to take him to Lahore to the Children’s Hospital for further tests.

It was their first journey out of Swat. The father borrowed money from a neighbor to cover bus fare. His mother packed two sets of clothes for Babar and one for herself, wrapping them in a thin blanket. The journey to Lahore was long, nearly twelve hours, filled with silence. Babar slept most of the way, his head resting on his mother’s lap, her hand trembling as she brushed his hair.

At the Children’s Hospital, the corridors were filled with the quiet hum of machines and the muffled cries of children. The doctors examined Babar and ordered blood tests and a bone marrow biopsy. The word “Leukemia” was first spoken that day a word that meant nothing to his parents. The doctor explained gently, trying to find the right language. He said, “Babar’s blood has gone sick. It’s a kind of cancer.”

His father nodded slowly, not fully understanding. His mother’s eyes filled with tears, though she didn’t yet grasp the meaning. All she knew was that her son her youngest, her most cheerful was now lying in a hospital bed, too weak to lift his toy car.

Days turned into weeks. Chemotherapy began,  a word that sounded as heavy as the treatment felt. The medicines made Babar nauseous, and his hair began to fall out in clumps. He stopped recognizing himself in the small mirror the nurse kept by his bed. His parents tried to stay strong, but they often felt lost, lost in the city, lost among medical words they could not pronounce, lost in the fear of how long they could afford to stay.

Back home, their land remained untended. The crops suffered. Babar’s father visited once a month to check the fields, returning with worry of mounting debts. His mother stayed by Babar’s side, sleeping on a mat beside his bed. Some nights she prayed quietly; other nights, she simply held his small hand and listened to his uneven breathing.

The hospital had other families like theirs, parents from faraway villages, each carrying a story that began with a child’s sudden sickness. They shared meals, stories, and moments of wordless understanding. Sometimes Babar played with another child in the ward, both of them pushing IV poles as if they were toy trucks. Those small moments of laughter made the days bearable.

Babar is still in treatment. The doctors say he is responding, though slowly. His parents have learned to recognize the ups and downs, the hopeful mornings, the difficult nights, the endless waiting. They no longer talk about the future in big words. For now, it is enough that he eats a little more, smiles a little, or sleeps peacefully through the night.

Back in Swat, his siblings ask when he will come home. His mother tells them, “Soon, Insha’Allah,” though she knows the road ahead is uncertain. She says it softly, with the quiet strength that comes from love, the kind of strength that doesn’t make headlines, but keeps a family going one day at a time.

Prayers for Muhammad Babr and all the sick children and their families who have to face this pain of cancer. May Allah make it easy for them. Aameen

Warriors and Survivors - 237

Warriors and Survivors - Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 237

I am Rukh Yusuf, Clinical Pharmacist, also specialized in Total Parenteral Nutrition and Bone Marrow Transplant. I have worked in the Pediatric Oncology unit of a public hospital. The mission of this blog is to bring to you the real-life stories of child patients suffering from cancer. Cancer is still a difficult disease to handle and treat. However, when it strikes the children, some so young that they cannot even speak, their agony is beyond expression and words. Let us pray especially for children suffering from cancer for early and complete remission. May Allah shower His Merciful Blessings upon them. Aameen. 

Moaz: The Quiet Struggle of an Eight Year Old from Faisalabad

Eight year old Moaz used to be the loudest among his siblings. He had a laugh that could fill the small courtyard of their home in Faisalabad. Every evening after school, he would run out with his neighborhood friends, sometimes barefoot and carefree, playing cricket until his mother called him in for food. Life in their modest home was simple but full of little joys the kind that come from togetherness rather than comfort.

His parents never had much, but they managed. His father works long hours in a textile mill, and his mother takes care of the four children Moaz, his two younger sisters, and his older brother. They didn’t have big dreams; their hopes were the ordinary ones most parents carry quietly that their children would stay healthy, go to school, and someday live a life a little easier than theirs.

It began with small things tiredness, bruises that took too long to fade, a strange paleness in Moaz’s face that no amount of rest seemed to fix. His mother first thought it was the heat or maybe his lack of appetite. But when he started losing energy even for play, she knew something wasn’t right. After several visits to local clinics and some tests at the district hospital, the doctor finally said the words that would change everything “acute leukemia”.

In that moment, time seemed to stop for his parents. They didn’t know what leukemia really meant, but they could see the fear in the doctor’s eyes and feel the heaviness in his voice. The days that followed were filled with confusion, hospital visits, and long rides back and forth between Faisalabad and Lahore for tests and consultations.

At home, the other children have grown quieter. Moaz’s older brother tries to help their mother with chores, and the little sisters sit close to her when she cries, though they don’t really understand why. The house that once echoed with Moaz’s laughter now feels heavier, filled with whispered worries and sleepless nights.

The hardest part for his parents isn’t only the illness it’s the uncertainty. His father counts money every night, sitting on the edge of his bed, calculating how far his savings might go. He knows that treatment for leukemia can take months, maybe years. He tries not to let Moaz or the others see the worry on his face, but his wife knows. She sees it in his silence, in the way he avoids meeting her eyes when they talk about the next hospital visit.

Moaz, for his part, doesn’t fully understand what’s happening to him. He knows he feels tired all the time and that the hospital smells strange. He doesn’t like the needles, or the way his mother’s hand trembles when she holds his. He misses his school, his friends, and the games he used to play in the street. Some mornings he asks his mother when he can go back, and she just says “soon,” though she doesn’t know when that will be.

The doctors have explained the treatment plan chemotherapy, regular checkups, possible complications. They’ve told the parents what it might take, both medically and financially. The parents listen carefully, nodding even when they don’t fully understand, because they don’t want to seem helpless. But inside, they are scared, scared of losing their child, scared of not having enough, scared of what the next day might bring.

Every night, when the house is finally quiet, Moaz’s mother sits beside him and watches him sleep. She adjusts his blanket, runs her fingers through his hair, and prays not in long words, but in small, broken whispers only she and God can hear. Sometimes she remembers the way he used to run through the house, and she smiles for a moment before the tears come again.

There is no easy way to describe what families like Moaz’s go through. It’s not a story of heroism or grand victories. It’s a story of waiting, of doing the best they can with what little they have, of holding on to hope even when it feels too heavy.

For now, Moaz’s world is made of hospital rooms, soft voices, and gentle touches. His parents continue to travel, to ask, to hope. They are not sure how they will manage, but they know they must try. And somewhere in the quiet between their fear and their love, they find just enough strength to face another day.

Sometimes, love doesn’t look like strength or courage it looks like a mother sitting beside her child through the night, whispering the same prayer again and again, believing that somehow it will be heard.

Prayers for Muhammad Moaz and all the sick children and their families who have to face this pain of cancer. May Allah make it easy for them. Aameen