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

Warriors and Survivors - 236

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 236

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. 

Title: Aftab’s Silent Battle

In the beautiful city of Sargodha, in a modest home and dusted sunlight, lives ten year-old Aftab a boy whose laughter once filled every corner of his house. He was the one who ran fastest in the narrow lanes, who dreamed of becoming a cricketer, and who believed pain was only a small thing that happened when you fell while playing. But now, pain has become something larger something that has moved into his days and refuses to leave.

Aftab is halfway through his treatment for Wilms tumor, a cancer of the kidney that no child should have to face. The hospital corridors, once confusing, are now familiar to him. The white coats, the beeping monitors, the smell of antiseptic each of these has become part of a world he never chose. He sits quietly during his chemotherapy sessions, his eyes distant, his small fingers gripping his mother’s hand a little tighter every time the nurse approaches with a syringe.

At ten, it’s hard to understand why the body turns against itself. It’s harder still to accept that the medicines meant to heal can also bring exhaustion, nausea, and hair falling in soft tufts on the pillow. Aftab doesn’t talk much these days. He used to ask questions about everything, but now his words are few. Sometimes he just stares at the window in silence, watching birds fly by. “They don’t have to come to hospitals,” he once whispered to his father.

His parents try to stay strong. His mother hides her tears until he’s asleep, while his father forces a smile and promises that things will soon get better. They tell him stories of children who have recovered, who are now back at school and playing cricket again. They show him pictures of the hospital staff who care deeply for children like him. But the hardest part for them is watching their son carry a sadness no child should ever carry.

Every hospital visit feels like an emotional climb for the whole family. His siblings wait at home, asking when Aftab will return to play with them. His grandmother prays every evening, her rosary beads worn thin. In their community, neighbors bring food and whisper words of support, yet they all know that courage is easier to speak of than to live through.

Aftab’s family has learned that cancer in childhood is not just a medical condition it is an emotional storm that tests the strength of everyone involved. Behind every hospital door are families like his, trying to hold on to hope one day at a time. They learn to celebrate the smallest victories a stable lab report, a day without vomiting, a smile after a long treatment session.

There are moments when Aftab’s spark flickers back. When his cousin visits with new cricket scores, or when a kind doctor gives him a sticker after chemotherapy, something in him softens. His father believes that even small moments of happiness are healing in their own way. “We will get through this,” he says, not just to his son, but to himself.

Aftab’s journey reminds us that pediatric oncology is not only about curing disease it’s about understanding the invisible weight a child carries. Every painful injection, every restless night, and every hospital trip is a quiet act of bravery. Children like Aftab teach us that strength is not loud it’s silent, persistent, and deeply human.

For those reading this, Aftab’s story is a gentle call to awareness. Thousands of children in Pakistan and across the world are fighting cancers like Wilms tumor. They need more than medical care they need emotional understanding, social support, and communities that stand beside their families without judgment or pity.

Aftab is still in the middle of his treatment, still learning to trust the process and believe that tomorrow will be kinder. His family continues to whisper hope into his tired heart, reminding him that healing takes time and that even on the hardest days, he is never alone.

Because somewhere in Sargodha, a little boy with sad eyes and a brave heart is teaching us all what courage truly looks like.

Prayers for Muhammad Aftab 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 - 235

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 235

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. 

A Mother’s Hope and Ahmad’s Wish

In a small town in Punjab, five year old Muhammad Ahmad begins each day with a quiet determination that seems far too mature for his age. His world has changed completely since he was diagnosed with Wilms tumor, a rare kidney cancer that crept into his childhood when it had barely begun. Once filled with playtime, school, and laughter, his days are now marked by hospital corridors, soft voices of nurses, and the hum of medical machines. Yet amid it all, there is one thing that hasn’t changed his mother’s hope.

Every morning, before they leave for the hospital, his mother helps him get ready. She still combs his hair, ties his shoes, and packs a small toy car in his bag. “You’re stronger than this, Ahmad,” she whispers, the same words she’s said since the first day of treatment. Ahmad nods with a smile that tries to reassure her in return. That brief exchange has become their small shield against fear, a quiet ritual that carries them through uncertainty.

At the hospital, Ahmad’s world feels different. The other children there are fighting their own invisible battles. Some are too tired to speak, others find comfort in crayons and coloring books. Ahmad, even on his hardest days, asks for his favorite toy car. He moves it gently across the bedsheet, pretending the bed is a road. His mother watches, knowing that this tiny act this insistence on play is his way of saying he hasn’t given up.

The nurses often comment on his spirit. “He’s a brave one,” they say softly, adjusting his IV line. His mother nods, but inside she knows bravery doesn’t always look loud. Sometimes it looks like a child quietly holding on through pain, or a mother learning to smile when her heart feels heavy.

At night, when Ahmad finally falls asleep, his mother sits by his bedside, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. In those quiet hours, her thoughts wander. She remembers the day before the diagnosis, the laughter, the noise of the neighborhood, the smell of dinner cooking. Life was ordinary, and she never realized how precious that ordinary was.

Now, each day feels borrowed and sacred. She prays not for perfection, but for simple things: one good meal without nausea, one day without pain, one laugh that sounds like the old Ahmad. Her prayers are no longer about wishing away all sorrow; they’re about learning to live beside it.

There are moments of deep fear that she never voices aloud. When she sees another mother leaving the ward without her child, her heart trembles. She looks at Ahmad and silently renews her promise to keep believing, no matter what. That belief has become her strength. It keeps her standing, smiling, comforting, and hoping when everything else feels fragile.

Ahmad’s will to recover is gentle but firm. Even when fatigue weighs on him, he insists on small routines saying thank you to the nurses, asking for his favorite bedtime story, or whispering “I’m okay” after a difficult day. He reminds everyone around him that courage doesn’t always roar, sometimes, it whispers quietly but persistently.

His mother often says that Ahmad has taught her the true meaning of patience. “He faces pain with more calm than I ever could,” she tells the doctors. “He believes in healing in a way that keeps me going.” The doctors smile, acknowledging that sometimes children become the strongest teachers in these rooms of struggle.

On days when Ahmad’s treatment leaves him weak, his mother opens the curtains to let in the morning light. “See, Ahmad,” she says softly, “the sun came for you again.” He nods, too tired to speak, but his small smile says everything. That sunlight becomes a symbol for warmth, for tomorrow, for life beyond the illness.

Hope, for them, is not a grand declaration. It’s a series of small, consistent choices: showing up for every appointment, believing in recovery, and finding reasons to smile even when the day feels long. His mother carries this hope like a quiet flame that refuses to fade.

For now, Ahmad’s journey continues, marked by challenges and small triumphs. Each step, each test, each moment of rest brings them closer to something she cannot yet see but deeply believes in a future where Ahmad runs freely again, free from hospital walls and machines.

In their world, recovery isn’t just a medical word. It’s a daily act of love and resilience. It’s in Ahmad’s gentle will to get better and his mother’s unwavering faith that tomorrow will be kinder. Together, they walk through each day with quiet courage a mother’s hope lighting the path, and a child’s will leading the way.

Prayers for Muhammad Ahmad 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 - 234

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 234

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. 

When a Childhood Stands Still: A Story from Sialkot

Ten year old Hamza from Sialkot was like any other bright, curious child. He loved cricket, math puzzles, and racing with his younger brothers after school. His mother, a schoolteacher, often said his laughter filled their home with life. His father, who also worked at the same school, took pride in his son’s energy and his endless questions about the world. But a few months ago, that laughter began to fade. Hamza grew tired easily, often complained of pain in his legs, and started missing school because of frequent fevers and unexplained bruises.

After several visits to the local clinic and countless tests, the diagnosis came, acute leukemia, a word that changed everything for Hamza and his family. For a ten year old, illness is often understood in fragments. Hamza knows he is sick and that his blood is “not working right.” He knows he has to go to the hospital often, that his hair is falling because of the medicines, and that sometimes he feels too weak to play. What he doesn’t understand is why this is happening or when it will end.

His parents, educated and thoughtful people, try to explain gently. They say the doctors are trying to help his blood make new, healthy cells. But no words can fully prepare a child for what follows the long hospital stays, the nausea after chemotherapy, the sterile smell of wards, and the sight of other children fighting the same silent battle.

For Hamza’s parents, each day feels like walking on thin ice. Both continue to teach at their school, but their minds remain elsewhere on the beeping machines, the lab reports, and the fragile body of their son. The hospital bills have started to pile up, and although they try to stay strong, fatigue shows in their eyes. They take turns staying with Hamza at the hospital while trying to care for their three other children at home.

The youngest, only five, often asks when his big brother will come home. The eldest sister, now thirteen, has started helping her mother more cooking simple meals and looking after her brothers. Their world has quietly rearranged itself around Hamza’s illness.

Illness in one child is never borne by that child alone. It ripples through the family, altering daily rhythms, emotional balance, and even financial stability. The home that once echoed with laughter now carries an undertone of worry and exhaustion. There are moments of hope when Hamza’s white cell counts improve or when the doctor says he’s responding to treatment but they are mixed with the anxiety of relapse and uncertainty about the future.

Hamza himself is learning resilience in ways children never should. He has grown quieter, observant of the nurses and their routines. Some days, he colors or reads in bed; other days, he simply lies still, watching light move across the ceiling. His body is fighting a disease most adults would struggle to comprehend. His parents tell him he’s brave, and he tries to believe them, even when tears fill his eyes after another injection.

Leukemia in children is one of the most treatable cancers when diagnosed early, but it requires long term care months, sometimes years of chemotherapy, blood tests, and emotional support. In Pakistan, where pediatric oncology resources are limited, families often travel far for specialized treatment. For parents like Hamza’s, who work in education and live on modest means, the cost is not only financial but deeply emotional. The constant uncertainty, the weight of watching your child suffer, and the helplessness of not being able to take the pain away these are burdens invisible to most.

Besides all this, there are glimpses of courage and love that hold the family together. Hamza’s mother keeps a journal of his recovery milestones. His father reads stories aloud during hospital nights. The siblings draw pictures to decorate his room. These small acts of hope, though ordinary, carry extraordinary strength.

Stories like Hamza’s remind us that pediatric cancer is not just a medical diagnosis it’s a family’s journey through fear, endurance, and hope. Each case is a call for awareness and compassion. Early detection, community support, and accessible oncology care can make a real difference in the lives of children like Hamza.

Behind every hospital bed lies a story not of defeat but of struggle. Hamza’s story is still being written with courage, care, and quiet faith. His parents continue to teach, his siblings continue to wait, and he continues to fight. In their resilience, there is a message for all of us to notice, to understand, and to support families navigating the long road of childhood cancer. Because every child deserves more than treatment, they deserve a chance to heal, to play again, and to simply be a child.

Prayers for Hamza 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 - 233

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 233

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.

Bisma’s Journey with Leukemia

In a small town of Sialkot lives a five year old girl named Bisma. She is the youngest in her family and the only daughter of her parents, with two elder brothers who adore her deeply. A year ago, Bisma’s life, and that of her family, changed when she was diagnosed with leukemia. Since then, her days have been shaped not by the carefree routine of childhood but by hospital visits, long treatments, and the constant fight against illness.

Bisma’s father works at a local school. He spends his days teaching children and returns home to care for his own, carrying the weight of both responsibility and uncertainty. Her mother manages the home and, more importantly, has become the steady presence by Bisma’s side during treatment. The diagnosis of leukemia brought with it not only medical challenges but also emotional and practical struggles that the family continues to navigate every day.

For treatment, the family must travel from Sialkot to Lahore several times each month. Each journey is filled with its own set of difficulties early departures, long hours on the road, and the knowledge that the destination is another hospital ward. For a small child, the hospital can be overwhelming. The smell of antiseptic, the sound of medical machines, and the sight of needles are not what childhood should be made of. Yet Bisma has grown familiar with these surroundings.

Chemotherapy is a demanding process. It drains energy, affects appetite, and often brings side effects that are difficult to endure. Bisma, like many children in her situation, has had days where her playfulness fades under the weight of treatment. Still, in her quiet resilience, she shows strength beyond her years. Her smile, when it comes, brings comfort to her parents who wait anxiously for every sign of improvement.

Staying in the hospital is not easy for the family. Her mother spends long nights by her bedside, watching over her as she sleeps. The simple routines of home meals shared around a table, evenings with her brothers are replaced by the uncertainty of hospital corridors and schedules determined by treatment cycles. Her father divides his time between work, caring for his sons in Sialkot, and traveling to Lahore to support his wife and daughter. The strain of this separation is felt deeply, yet they continue to hold together as a family.

Financially and emotionally, the journey is heavy. Traveling frequently for treatment adds expenses, and the loss of normal family life adds to the burden. Yet despite the challenges, Bisma’s parents remain committed. They know that every difficult journey to Lahore, every long hospital stay, is a step toward giving their daughter the chance at recovery.

Her brothers wait eagerly for her return after each round of treatment. They understand, even at a young age, that their sister needs more care right now. Their small acts of love sharing toys, sitting quietly beside her become part of her healing environment when she is home. In their own way, they protect her from the weight of illness, reminding her of the joy of being a child.

Bisma’s story is not one of easy victories but of steady perseverance. It reflects the reality faced by many families in Pakistan and beyond families who must balance hope with hardship, and who discover resilience they never knew they had. The road between Sialkot and Lahore is not just a physical distance for her parents; it is a symbol of their determination to fight alongside their daughter, no matter how many miles it takes.

At only five years old, Bisma has already endured more than many adults face in a lifetime. Yet her story is not defined only by illness. It is also defined by the love of her parents, the quiet strength of her brothers, and the tireless efforts of doctors and nurses working toward her recovery.

For now, her journey continues marked by hospital visits, treatments, and the hope of brighter days. Bisma’s family holds on to that hope, believing that one day she will be able to return to the life every child deserves: a life of play, learning, and laughter, free from the dark shadows of a cruel disease.

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