Warriors and Survivors - 223

 Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 223

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. 

I’ve seen her smile more than I expected.

Momina is eight. From Lahore.

She has beta-thalassemia major—the kind where the body can’t make enough functional hemoglobin, and life becomes a balance between blood transfusions and iron overload. Her parents bring her to the outpatient unit twice a month. I see them in the waiting area sometimes—quiet, focused. Her father mostly listens. Her mother mostly holds everything together.

You learn, over time, not to look at thalassemia only as a disease. You start seeing it as a long story—told in lab reports, ferritin levels, side effect charts, and yes, in the faces of children like Momina. She looks small for her age, but her eyes are curious, watching everything. During a recent visit, she asked me if medicine can make blood. Not a transfusion. “Medicine that tells my body to do it,” she said.

There’s no easy answer for that. And I didn’t give one. I just said, “We’re working on it.”

For Momina, treatment is a full-time commitment. Her medications include iron chelators to reduce iron accumulation caused by frequent transfusions. Without chelation, iron builds up in her liver, heart, and other organs—something that can quietly turn dangerous. We’ve shifted her from deferoxamine to an oral agent because the nightly injections were becoming too much.

We try to anticipate problems before they happen—nausea from chelation, vitamin D deficiency, potential cardiac strain. Each month, her bloodwork tells us a little more about how she's handling the therapy. Not just physically, but emotionally too. Some days, she refuses to eat after a transfusion. Other times, she chatters on about school like nothing is wrong. That unpredictability is part of the disease.

Her family doesn’t use big words like “cure.” They talk about “next steps,” “this month’s numbers,” “how long this medicine will last.” They’ve stopped asking for guarantees, but they haven’t stopped showing up. That, in itself, is something I’ve come to admire.

There’s talk in the medical community about gene therapy for beta-thalassemia, and yes, it’s promising. But for under developed countries it still feels distant—too costly, too experimental, too far from Lahore. So, for now, we work within the limits of what’s available. Medications. Monitoring. Blood donations. Hope that’s measured, not idealized.

Lately, her response to transfusions has slowed. Her pre-transfusion hemoglobin dips lower than before. Her spleen is slightly enlarged. These changes are small, but they add up. This is what we call a “slow decline.” Not alarming, but unmistakable.

There’s no dramatic shift to mark the moment when a child starts to worsen. It’s a gradual series of small adjustments—lowering activity levels, adding a new supplement, shifting a medication dose. These are the ways we try to hold her steady, even as her condition quietly shifts beneath us.

Not a Story of Triumph—Just a Story Still Going

This isn’t a story of beating thalassemia. Not yet.

It’s a story of living with it—of managing symptoms, watching numbers, adjusting medications, and holding onto routines. It’s about an eight-year-old girl who still jokes with the phlebotomist, and a family that asks thoughtful, specific questions, and a pharmacist who follows every small change in her case like it matters.

Because it does.

Prayers for Momina 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 - 222

 Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 222

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. 

Naveed’s Story: A Dream Interrupted

Naveed is a 14-year-old boy from Bahawalpur, a city where fields stretch far, and life moves gently with the seasons. Before illness came into his life, Naveed was known in his neighborhood as the child who never stayed still—always running between classes, cricket games, and sketching small machines in his notebook. He had a quiet smile, a love for drawing, and a serious dream: he wanted to become an engineer one day.

He was the kind of student who remembered what teachers said the first time. His parents often said he didn’t need reminders to do homework. He understood how things worked—how a bicycle chain moved, how electric switches-controlled fans—and that fascination turned into a goal: engineering. He would speak about it with pride, sometimes shyly, sometimes boldly.

A few months ago, everything began to change. It started with a fever that wouldn’t go away and an unusual swelling in his abdomen. His family thought it might be an infection, something treatable. But the tests that followed told a different story—one that no family ever wants to hear.

Naveed was diagnosed with hepatocellular carcinoma, a type of liver cancer. For someone his age, it’s rare. For his parents, it was confusing. There had been no long-term illness, no warning signs. He had always been healthy, playful, and full of energy. Yet, now, he was being admitted to a hospital, surrounded by medical teams, tests, and quiet conversations between doctors and nurses that he tried not to overhear.

At first, there was hope. The oncology team began his treatment with a plan. Medicines were started. His family held on tightly to every small improvement—when his appetite returned for a day, when his fever stayed down, when he smiled at a visiting cousin. But cancer, especially this kind, doesn’t always follow a predictable path.

A scan taken weeks later revealed something unexpected and painful: small nodules had appeared in his lungs. Pulmonary metastasis—the disease had spread. The medical team gathered to discuss his case in a multidisciplinary team meeting (MDT). His name was spoken with seriousness, with compassion, and with the weight that doctors carry when science begins to offer fewer options.

Now, the conversation has turned towards palliative care—a shift from trying to cure, to trying to keep him as comfortable and pain-free as possible. It is a different kind of medicine, one that holds the child more gently, that speaks more softly, that listens not only to symptoms but to fears, wishes, and quiet silences.

Naveed understands more than his parents sometimes wish he did. He knows he’s very sick. He asks fewer questions now but watches more. His sketchbook lies open on the bedside table. One page shows a bridge he had started drawing weeks ago. It’s only half-finished.

His parents spend their days by his side. They speak to him about school, friends, and Bahawalpur. His younger siblings come to visit when they can. In their presence, he tries to sit up straighter. 

There are no perfect words for this kind of journey. His story is not about beating odds, but about a boy who had dreams, who loved learning, and who continues to mean everything to his family. He still matters—deeply—even in these most uncertain days.

Naveed’s life may now be measured in smaller ways—days without pain, mornings when he asks for mango juice, evenings when he listens to stories from home—but it is still his life. One that deserves gentleness, dignity, and remembrance.

Some dreams get interrupted. But some, like Naveed’s love for understanding how things work, don’t truly disappear. They live on in the hearts of the people who knew him, who cared for him, and who now hold him with quiet love through each moment.

Prayers for Naveed 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 - 221

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 221

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. 

I first met Faizan in early 2021. He was nine years old then—a quiet boy with deep, serious eyes. His chart read B-cell Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia (ALL), newly diagnosed. He had just been admitted for induction chemotherapy. Like many young patients, Faizan didn’t ask questions. He sat beside his mother, holding her hand, trying to make sense of the strange hospital world around him.

Faizan is from Arifwala, a small town that’s few hours away from the cancer center. His family traveled here on borrowed time and borrowed money, trusting strangers in white coats to help their child. I remember his father sitting outside the pharmacy, trying to understand what PEG-asparaginase was, why he had to find it outside, and whether a cheaper brand would “work the same.” As a pharmacist, these are common conversations. But in Faizan’s case, I remember his father didn’t ask too many questions. He only asked, “Will this make him better?”

Treatment began. Vincristine, steroids, intrathecal methotrexate—all laid out in protocols with complicated names, but each dose marking a step toward hope. And Faizan responded well. By the end of 2021, he was in remission. His blood counts normalized. His hair began to grow back. There was laughter in the ward again—careful, cautious laughter.

In 2022, he celebrated his remission. He rang the little bell we keep in the pediatric oncology wing. I remember thinking how different he looked—still small for his age, but louder now, curious about the IV pumps and asking me why medicine sometimes “burns the vein.” He said he wanted to become a “doctor or a pharmacist” when he grew up—he hadn’t decided exactly.

But then, in late 2022, the blood counts started to shift again. I remember seeing him in OPD one morning and feeling the weight of numbers I wish had stayed stable. Flow cytometry confirmed it—relapse. The disease was back. The pharmacy team got the order for reinduction, and we started the process all over again. The same meds. The same nausea. This time, he didn't ask as questions.

Now, Faizan is 11. He’s in the second year of treatment again, and he’s tired. His ANC drops often. He misses a lot of school. Sometimes he forgets words. His mother says he used to be good at math but now struggles. Some days he sleeps through most of his visits; other days, he watches cartoons on a donated tablet while the infusion runs. He rarely complains. But I notice the subtle changes—he no longer flinches when the IV line is flushed. He can name most of his chemotherapy medications now. And he doesn’t ask when treatment will end anymore.

As a pharmacist, my role is critical. I review doses, adjust for organ function, manage side effects. But in practice, pediatric oncology care goes far beyond pharmacokinetics. You remember faces. You memorize schedules. You carry quiet pieces of their stories with you. And with Faizan, I carry the image of a child who never got to stop being a patient.

Faizan’s story isn’t over yet. He’s still in treatment, and he still travels with his family from Arifwala for every cycle. His parents still ask careful questions, and I still do my best to answer them in plain language. He still wears the same worn blue slippers during his visits. I don’t know what the outcome will be—but I know Faizan is more than his lab values. He’s a boy who once wanted to be a “medicine person,” and maybe one day, if life allows, he still could.

For now, he remains under our care—between pharmacy doses and doctor rounds, between uncertainty and the quiet hope we don’t always speak out loud.

If you're reading this, I ask only one thing—remember Faizan in your prayers. Not as a statistic or a case report, but as a real 11-year-old boy who wants to be a health care provider. His story matters. 

Prayers for the  Faizan 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 - 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

Warriors and Survivors - 219

 Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 219

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. 

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

Warriors and Survivors - 218

 Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 218

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. 

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

Warriors and Survivors - 217

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 217

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. 

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