Warriors & Survivors

Friday, July 4, 2025

Warriors and Survivors - 220

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 220

I am Rukh Yusuf, Clinical Pharmacist, also specialized in Total Parenteral Nutrition and Bone Marrow Transplant. I have been working in the Pediatric Oncology unit of a public hospital for several years. 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.

A Silence Too Heavy – Wareesha’s Fight Against Nasopharyngeal Carcinoma

There are days when words come easily, and then there are days like today—when I sit in front of a blank screen, knowing I must write about a child whose suffering feels too immense to put into sentences. Today’s story is about Wareesha, an 11-year-old girl from a small town called Buray Wala. She’s facing something that no child should ever have to know: Nasopharyngeal carcinoma, a rare and aggressive cancer growing in the upper part of her throat behind the nose.

Her story is quiet, it’s a slow, difficult silence—a silence that fills a room when her mother watches her sleep through pain. A silence that hovers when the doctor enters the ward with scan results. A silence that feels unbearable when you're 11 years old and can't swallow without discomfort and can't breathe clearly through your nose anymore.

Wareesha used to be a student who never missed school. Her teachers say she was shy but sharp, the kind of child who would quietly help a classmate with homework or clean up without being asked. That was before her headaches began. At first, her parents thought it was just a flu that wouldn’t go away. Then came the nosebleeds. Then the swelling in her neck. By the time they reached a hospital in Multan, she had already lost several pounds and was having trouble hearing from one ear.

A biopsy confirmed what they feared but didn’t yet understand, “Nasopharyngeal carcinoma” a cancer rarely seen in children, particularly in rural Pakistan. The doctors explained that it tends to be diagnosed late because its symptoms mimic common illnesses: ear infections, allergies, sore throats. But this wasn’t something common. This was cancer, and it had already begun to invade.

For most of us, it’s hard to imagine what cancer looks like in a child. We think of tubes, of shaved heads, of quiet hospital rooms. But what I saw in Wareesha’s eyes was more than that. It was confusion—about why she had to stop going to school, why the other kids could play outside while she lay in a hospital bed. Why food didn’t taste like anything anymore. Why she had to hold her mother’s hand so tightly just to walk down the hallway.

Wareesha is currently undergoing chemotherapy, a procedure she neither understands nor welcomes, but endures with more patience than most adults could muster. There are days her throat is so sore she can’t even whisper. Yet when her younger brother visits, she forces a smile and asks if he’s done his homework. That’s Wareesha—still thinking of others even while her own world is quietly collapsing.

Her parents have sold most of what they own to afford her treatment. Her father, a seasonal laborer, now lives part-time in Lahore just to be near the oncology unit. Her mother stays by her bedside. They don’t complain. They don't beg. But you can see the fear sitting quietly behind their eyes.

There is something unbearably unjust about pediatric cancer. It interrupts dreams before they’ve had a chance to form. It turns bedtime stories into whispered prayers. It replaces laughter with IV drips and chemo schedules. But Wareesha’s story is also a reminder of the hope that exists in the most fragile of bodies. The dignity in small endurance. The courage of children who don’t even know what courage means.

I don’t have an ending for this story—not yet. Wareesha is still in treatment. Her prognosis depends on many things: how the tumor responds to treatment, whether her body can handle the side effects, whether her family can continue to afford the medical care she needs. But she’s fighting, quietly, bravely, every single day.

If you're reading this, I ask only one thing—remember Wareesha in your prayers. Not as a statistic or a case report, but as a real 11-year-old girl who once loved to read, who now fights to breathe. Her story matters. And maybe if we keep telling it, the silence will start to break.

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

Friday, June 27, 2025

Warriors and Survivors - 219

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 219

Eman Fatima is a 10-year-old girl from Lahore. She lives in a small home with her parents and three siblings. Her father works as a daily wage laborer, and her mother manages the household. Until a few months ago, Eman was attending school regularly and was doing well academically. She especially enjoyed studies and spent time after school helping her younger brother with his reading.

In early January, Eman started developing unexplained fevers. Her mother noticed frequent bruises on her arms and legs, which she initially attributed to normal childhood activity. Over the next few weeks, the fevers became persistent, and Eman began complaining of fatigue and leg pain. After visiting a local clinic and getting basic blood work done, the family was advised to go to a tertiary care hospital in Lahore for further evaluation.

At the hospital, Eman underwent a series of tests, including a bone marrow biopsy. The diagnosis was B-cell Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia (B-ALL). The medical team explained to her parents that this form of leukemia is treatable, especially in children, but the treatment would be long and would require frequent hospital visits, medications, and monitoring.

The news was difficult to process. Eman’s parents had little understanding of the disease and no previous experience navigating the healthcare system at this level. Treatment started with induction chemotherapy. The hospital, which runs a pediatric oncology unit, was able to cover the cost of Eman’s medications, blood tests, and inpatient stays. However, transportation to the hospital, missed workdays, and caregiving for the other children became ongoing challenges for the family.

Eman experienced the expected side effects of chemotherapy: nausea, hair loss, low blood counts, and fatigue. During the first few weeks of hospitalization, her mother stayed with her on a wooden bench next to her bed, while her father juggled caregiving responsibilities at home and tried not to miss work. Their concerns were not just about the illness, but about stability—how long they could continue to manage logistically and emotionally without additional help.

The hospital's social worker connected the family with a local nonprofit that provided monthly travel stipends and occasional food rations. These modest supports made a noticeable difference. With these, Eman has been able to attend her scheduled treatments more regularly, and her family has been able to keep some routines intact for their other children.

As of now, Eman has completed the induction and consolidation phases of her treatment and is continuing with maintenance therapy. She is able to spend more time at home and has resumed her schoolwork from home through assignments sent by her schoolteacher. She does not always feel well, and the follow-up visits and occasional transfusions are reminders that her journey is still ongoing.

This story of Eman is not unusual. Many families in Pakistan—and in other low- and middle-income countries—face similar difficulties when a child is diagnosed with cancer. The cost of care is often covered by hospitals or public systems, but the indirect costs—transportation, loss of income, caregiving—remain high and are rarely accounted for in policy or planning.

Eman’s experience shows us the need for not only treatment availability but also for structured support systems that assist families in maintaining continuity of care. Simple measures—such as travel subsidies, caregiver accommodations, nutritional support, and school reintegration—can significantly improve the experience of care for children like Eman.

More than inspiration, stories like Eman's are reminders of the life’s trials —and the need to address them with practical, sustainable solutions.

Prayers for the 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

Friday, June 20, 2025

Warriors and Survivors - 218

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 218

It was a chilly morning in Mandi Bahauddin, and like most days, 13-year-old Ali Haider was sitting cross-legged on the floor of his small home, surrounded by old screws, wires, and pieces of electronics that neighbors had handed him to “try fixing.” That morning, something felt different. His fingers didn’t quite follow his brain’s instructions. His right hand felt weak, almost disconnected. But he shrugged it off. Maybe he had slept on it the wrong way.

By afternoon, he was dragging his right foot slightly as he walked to the kitchen. By evening, he had a low-grade fever and looked more tired than usual.

His mother thought it might just be the flu. She gave him soup, a warm blanket, and a tablet of paracetamol. But over the next few days, the fever stayed. His speech got slower. The weakness worsened. When he tried to brush his teeth, he dropped the brush and couldn't grip it again. It wasn’t just tiredness. Something was wrong.

His father, who worked as a driver and was often away, returned home the moment he heard. They went to the nearest clinic, then to the district hospital. The local doctors couldn’t make sense of it. A stroke, maybe? They referred him to Lahore urgently.

Ali didn’t ask many questions during those hospital visits. He just watched people. Watched how fast doctors moved in white coats, how quietly nurses pushed wheelchairs past crowded benches. His only question, quietly asked during a late-night scan, was, “Will I be able to go back to school?”

It was in Lahore that the family first heard the words: Pre-B cell Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia—a type of blood cancer. His parents didn’t understand the name at first. They only understood the word cancer. The doctors explained what it meant: his body was making abnormal white blood cells. He would need chemotherapy. It would take months—maybe more than a year. There would be side effects. There would be hospital stays.

Ali didn’t cry. He just lay there quietly and asked, “Is this why I can’t move my hand properly?”

The next few weeks were heavy. Heavy with decisions, tests, needles, nausea, and quiet fear. His hair began to fall out. He lost weight quickly. On some days, he couldn’t eat more than a few spoons of rice. On others, he just slept, barely speaking.

But there were also little moments. When a nurse came to adjust his IV line, he asked her how it worked. “Is there a battery in the machine?” he asked. Even during chemo, his curiosity lived on.

At night, he’d call his younger sister. She was too young to fully understand what was happening but old enough to know her brother was very sick. She’d tell him about the pigeons at home, about how their cousin tried to fly a kite from the roof and got it stuck in a tree. Ali would laugh quietly, careful not to disturb the other children in the ward.

His parents tried their best to stay strong. His mother stayed by his side in the hospital, sleeping on a mat near his bed. His father went back and forth between towns, trying to arrange money. They sold jewelry, borrowed from relatives, and received some small support from a friend working in Gujranwala. Every bit helped.

Ali missed his old life deeply. He missed the field behind his house where he used to play cricket with friends. He missed his school desk and the notebook where he used to sketch out ideas for small inventions. Most of all, he missed being useful—helping fix things around the house, solving little problems, being part of daily life.

Now, months into treatment, Ali’s condition is stable, but his journey is far from over. He still gets fevers. He still tires easily. But on good days, he picks up old wires and asks his mother if he can try making a simple fan again. “Just for fun,” he says.

This isn’t a story about miracles or sudden recoveries. It’s about a real boy in a real town, living through something he never asked for. It’s about a family learning how to carry a weight they didn’t expect. It’s also about small hopes—a quiet laugh on the phone, a fixed battery, a shared meal.

Ali Haider still dreams of opening a little electronics shop one day. He says he wants to name it “Ali Fixes Everything.” Maybe he will.

Prayers for the 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

Friday, June 13, 2025

Warriors and Survivors - 217

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 217

Fourteen-year-old Ayan lives in a modest neighborhood of Lahore. His life, until a few months ago, was just like that of any other teenage boy in his area—school, cricket with friends, occasional arguments with his siblings, and evenings spent helping his mother with small chores. But one quiet evening, Ayan’s mother noticed something that worried her deeply: his stomach looked slightly swollen. At first, she thought it might be something simple—maybe gas or constipation. She gave him a home remedy and didn’t think much of it.

But over the next few weeks, Ayan started to lose his appetite. The swelling didn’t go away. He felt tired more often and stopped going out to play. His mother, recalling something she’d rather not forget. A few years ago, Ayan’s cousin had shown similar signs—abdominal bloating, lack of appetite, unexplained fatigue. But before the family could find a diagnosis, he passed away. They were left with questions that had no answers.

This time, Ayan’s parents were determined to do whatever it took to get to the root of the problem.

At first, they visited a local clinic. The doctor recommended a few basic tests and prescribed some medicine for stomach discomfort. But Ayan’s condition didn’t improve. The distension became more obvious. He began to experience pain, especially at night, and occasionally felt feverish. His schoolbag lay untouched in a corner for days. His once cheerful energy was slowly fading.

When the initial treatments failed, the doctor referred them to a children’s hospital in Lahore. There, after a thorough evaluation and imaging, the family received a diagnosis they had never heard before—hepatoblastoma, a rare liver tumor seen in children.

The word meant nothing to Ayan or his parents at first. But the doctor explained it in simple terms: it was a type of cancer that needed urgent treatment. His mother, silent but visibly shaken, sat holding her son’s hand. His father asked a quiet question, one that revealed years of unspoken fear: “Could this be what happened to our nephew?”

The possibility was real. Ayan’s cousin had never been properly diagnosed, and the family never got clear answers. Now, with Ayan’s diagnosis, many pieces seemed to fall into place. Adding to their concern was the fact that Ayan’s parents are cousins—something not uncommon in their extended family, but now, they were told, it could have increased the genetic risk for certain illnesses.

The treatment journey began—blood tests, imaging, biopsy, and long discussions with doctors. Ayan was quiet mostly, trying to make sense of the sudden change in his life. His parents struggled with appointments, hospital paperwork, and financial worries. Despite everything, they showed up every day, holding his hand, bringing him his favorite food (even when he could barely eat), and sitting through long hours in the hospital waiting areas.

Chemotherapy sessions were hard. Ayan lost weight and his hair. But the hospital team tried to make things a bit easier—some days, a social worker would bring art materials; other days, a volunteer would stop by to play games or talk with him. Ayan found small moments of peace in these distractions.

His friends from school didn’t always understand what was happening. Some visited once or twice, others stopped calling. Cancer is a word that makes people uncomfortable. His mother often said, “He’s still Ayan. He’s just going through something hard.” But explaining that to others wasn’t always easy.

Now, months into treatment, Ayan has better days and worse ones. His tumor has shrunk with chemotherapy, and doctors are planning surgery. It’s not over, and the road ahead is still long, but the family has learned to take one day at a time.

Ayan’s story is not rare—but it is rarely heard.

Mostly, symptoms like abdominal swelling are overlooked or misattributed to minor illnesses. Families may not reach specialized care in time, either due to lack of awareness, resources, or access. In Ayan’s case, prior family experience triggered an earlier response. But for many others, the delay can mean a lost chance.

This blog isn’t meant to scare—it’s meant to share. To remind us to listen when a child says they feel unwell. To seek proper medical advice when symptoms don’t go away.

Ayan is still fighting, but he is not alone. His parents are learning, growing, and teaching others around them. In a small way, their story might help another child get diagnosed earlier, treated sooner, and live a longer, healthier life.

If you take anything from Ayan’s journey, let it be this: trust your instincts, ask questions, and don’t wait when it comes to a child’s health.

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

Friday, June 6, 2025

Warriors and Survivors - 216

Warriors and Survivors - Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 216

Ahmad’s Brave Days: A Glimpse into the Life of a 5-Year-Old Fighting Wilms Tumor

I met Ahmad on a humid Tuesday morning in a pediatric oncology ward. He was sitting quietly on the edge of a hospital bed too big for his small frame, wearing a faded cartoon T-shirt and holding onto a plastic toy car with chipped paint. His mother, exhausted but determined, sat beside him, gently running her fingers through his hair.

Ahmad is five years old. He has Wilms tumor—a kidney cancer that mostly affects children. I’ve seen the diagnosis before, but each case carries its own weight. For Ahmad, it began with a swollen belly that wouldn’t go away. His mother thought it was gas. They tried home remedies, then visited a local clinic. It took months and multiple referrals before the family reached our facility, by which time the tumor had grown large enough to push against other organs.

As a clinical pharmacist, my role in his care doesn’t involve surgery or making a diagnosis, but I’m responsible for ensuring he gets the right medicines, at the right time, with the least possible harm. Chemotherapy for children like Ahmad is tough—it hits the cancer, yes, but it also drains the strength from already fragile bodies. I review each dose with the oncology team, adjust for his weight and lab values, and watch for side effects that we need to catch early.

But Ahmad is more than a diagnosis. He is soft-spoken and shy, but he smiles when we let him pick a sticker after taking his medicine. He hates the IV needles but loves mango juice. On good days, he races down the hallway with other kids in the ward—IV pole in tow, laughter echoing off the walls. On bad days, he sleeps most of the time, curled up like a question mark, his body asking things we cannot answer.

His family travels two hours to reach us, and they often stay on the hospital floor at night. His mother told me once, “We sold the buffalo to pay for the scans. We’ll sell more if we have to. He’s our only son.” She says it without asking for pity—only stating what love demands.

Working with Ahmad is difficult for any healthcare provider. There are days that you leave the hospital heavy with helplessness. We do everything we can—monitor blood counts, prevent infections, calculate the right dose to avoid toxicity—but the road is long, and not every turn is in our hands.

Still, there is hope. Ahmad’s tumor responded to the first cycle of chemotherapy. He has more treatment ahead, and we don’t know yet if surgery will be needed. But for now, he is here, smiling, playing, sometimes crying—but always fighting.

We often think strength looks like something loud, something bold. But sometimes, it looks like a five-year-old in slippers, gripping a toy car, walking into the chemo room with steady steps.

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

Friday, May 30, 2025

Warriors and Survivors - 215

Warriors and Survivors - Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 215

"Ali Hassan's Quiet Courage: A Year of Battles from Wazirabad"

Eight months ago, Ali Hassan’s life took a sharp turn.

Thirteen years old, full of quiet mischief and cricket dreams, Ali lived with his family in a modest home tucked in a narrow lane of Wazirabad. His days were ordinary school in the morning, cricket in the afternoon, and helping his younger siblings with homework after dinner. But in September of last year, something changed.

Ali started getting tired more often. At first, his mother thought it was just the heat. Then came the fevers. Bruises appeared on his arms that no one remembered him getting. He began losing weight, and one day, he fainted on the school stairs. That was the day his family took him to a government hospital in Gujranwala.

After two weeks of blood tests, referrals, and confusion, Ali was diagnosed with T-cell Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia (T-ALL)—a high-risk type of blood cancer. His parents were told they needed to go to Lahore, over 100 kilometers away, for proper treatment.

The word “cancer” was something his family had only ever heard in hushed TV ads or whispered conversations. No one in the family had dealt with this before. They didn’t know what a port was. Or what induction chemotherapy meant. Or that Ali would be spending more time in hospital beds than in school benches for the next year, maybe longer.

A Family Displaced

In Lahore, Ali was admitted to a pediatric oncology ward. His mother stayed with him. His father, a mechanic, tried to manage between work in Wazirabad and visits to the hospital. They couldn’t afford to rent a room nearby, so for weeks, Ali’s mother slept on a mat under his hospital bed.

Ali’s treatment began with steroids, intravenous chemotherapy, and painful bone marrow tests. He lost his hair in the third week. But that wasn’t what bothered him. “Ammi, I just want to go home. I miss the sound of the fan in our room,” he whispered one night.

Hospital life is a strange universe. Time bends. Daylight barely seeps through windows. Other children come and go—some discharged, some not. There are alarms from IV pumps and coughing from the next bed. In this world, Ali became quieter. He no longer asked for the cricket ball he had brought with him. He no longer argued about homework. But he always asked for chai when the nurse brought it for his mother.

A Life on Pause

Ali’s chemotherapy has now entered its eighth month. His white blood cell counts are still under watch. He’s in the consolidation phase, with occasional infections slowing his progress. His appetite comes and goes. His skin has turned pale. He keeps a notebook where he draws tiny pencil sketches—mostly of his street back home and the tandoor shop on the corner.

His mother tells me, “He doesn’t cry. Not once. But at night, he talks in his sleep. He says, ‘Don’t take me back to the white room.’ I think he means the procedure room.”

What makes Ali’s story stand out is not just the diagnosis—it’s what cancer does to a family already surviving day to day. Cancer, for them, is not a fight with inspiring hashtags. It's rationing the money between antibiotics and bus fare. It’s trying to find a donor for blood at 2 AM because the hospital has run out. It’s a younger sibling left back home asking, “When is bhai coming back?”

Holding On

Ali's family is doing what families do in such times—they’re holding on. His father now borrows a neighbor’s motorbike every weekend to come see him. His teachers send him voice notes with lessons, though Ali rarely listens. His biggest smile in weeks came when a ward volunteer gave him a plastic bat and let him tap a ball across the corridor.

No one knows how long the treatment will last. There are still scans to come, more phases to clear, and always the lurking fear of relapse. But for now, Ali is here. Drawing. Waiting. Healing, in bits.

And sometimes, that's what hope looks like—not a grand victory, but a boy from Wazirabad who quietly survives another day in a hospital ward far from home.

If you're reading this, perhaps you can take a moment to think of families like Ali’s. Their battles are not always visible. But they are real, and they deserve space in our hearts and our conversations.

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

Friday, May 23, 2025

Warriors and Survivors - 214

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 214

Uzair from Jhang: Six Months into a Battle He Never Chose

Thirteen-year-old Uzair doesn’t talk much these days. Not because he has nothing to say, but because most of his energy is spent on just making it through the day. He lives in Jhang, a town where people know each other by name, and children play cricket in the narrow streets until the sun sets. That used to be Uzair too. Until everything changed.

Six months ago, Uzair was diagnosed with acute B lymphocytic leukemia, a type of blood cancer that grows fast and needs immediate treatment. It started with small signs—he felt tired all the time, lost interest in food, and bruises showed up on his arms without any falls or injuries. At first, his parents thought it was weakness or maybe a seasonal virus. But when he fainted one evening while helping his father close the shop, they knew something was deeply wrong.

The road to diagnosis wasn’t short. In Jhang, basic healthcare is available, but serious conditions need extra care. Uzair’s parents visited local clinics, did blood tests, and finally travelled hours to a cancer unit in Lahore. That’s where they heard the words no parent ever wants to hear. Cancer. Chemotherapy. Long-term treatment. No guarantees.

Since then, Uzair’s life has been split between hospital beds and home. His school uniform now sits folded in a corner, untouched. Instead of math books and cricket bats, his daily routine involves blood counts, IV lines, and anti-nausea medicine. Chemotherapy is hard. It makes him sick, makes his hair fall out, and sometimes leaves him too weak to even speak.

But perhaps the hardest part isn’t just the physical pain. It’s the isolation. He misses his friends. He misses being part of the everyday rhythm of life—going to school, fighting with his sister over the TV remote, waiting for the power to come back during load-shedding, or eating his mother’s homemade kheer.

His parents are doing what they can, but it’s not easy. Treatment does not have high cost, but they have to sometimes pay for expensive tests, and consistent care means travelling back and forth to bigger cities. His father has reduced his working hours, and his mother hasn’t slept properly in months. They don’t complain. Not because they’re not exhausted, but because they don’t have time to be. Every rupee, every ride to the hospital, every medicine—it's all part of trying to save Uzair’s life.

One might think six months into treatment, things would get easier. But the truth is, they don’t. The worry never fades. Even when Uzair has a “good” day, there’s always the fear of infection, of relapse, of what happens if they miss a dose because they couldn’t afford it that week.

And yet, there are moments. Moments when Uzair hums an old song from a TV drama or smiles when his cousin calls from the village to talk about cricket scores. Moments when his mother gently oils his scalp, whispering stories from when he was little. These are not victories in the loud, movie-like sense, but they are real. They are the fragile, precious parts of living through something no child should have to go through.

Uzair’s story isn’t finished. There are still months of treatment ahead. There are still blood reports to wait on and medicines to collect. But what his story tells us now—more than anything—is that childhood cancer is not just a diagnosis. It’s a test of everything a family holds together: strength, sacrifice, patience, and hope.

In places like Jhang, where resources are limited and every journey to a hospital is an uphill one, children like Uzair quietly fight battles that few see. His life is not a headline, but it matters. And that’s why it must be told.

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