Warriors and Survivors - 245

 Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 245

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. 

Waqar’s Story: A Childhood Measured in Transfusions, Not Time

Waqar is ten years old. When he laughs quietly, sometimes shyly, you might not guess what lies beneath the surface of that smile. You wouldn’t know, at first glance, that his life has been woven through hospital corridors, needles, and blood bags since infancy; that every two to three weeks he sits in a chair while nurses gently insert a needle into his veins to give him life-saving blood. His is not a story of heroic feats or dramatic rescues, but a deeply human one: the slow, heartfelt persistence of a child living with beta-thalassemia major: and a family trying to keep him alive.

What Is Beta-Thalassemia Major

Beta-thalassemia major is an inherited blood disorder that affects hemoglobin, the protein in red blood cells that carries oxygen to the body’s tissues. In children with this condition, the body cannot produce enough functional hemoglobin, leading to severe anemia, weakness, fatigue, and low energy. Without regular blood transfusions, the body literally starves for oxygen, and vital organs struggle to function. As Waqar’s parents describe it, “his body wears out faster than other kids’” because his blood can’t carry the life force his heart and brain need. Symptoms often include severe fatigue, jaundice (yellowing of skin), poor growth, and frequent infections. Over time, complications such as enlarged spleen, bone changes, and iron overload affecting the heart and liver can occur unless managed carefully. 

A Burden Felt Across Asia and Deeply in Pakistan

In Asia, especially the subcontinent, the Mediterranean, and the Middle East, inherited blood disorders like beta-thalassemia are significantly more common than in many Western countries. A large proportion of global births affected by this disorder occur in these regions. 

Pakistan, with a population exceeding 225 million people, carries the high burdens of beta-thalassemia. An estimated 5–7% of the population are carriers of the beta-thalassemia gene more than 10 million people and every year about 5,000 children are born with the major form of the disease that demands lifelong management.

Many families do not know their genetic carrier status until a child is diagnosed. Cultural factors such as consanguineous (cousin) marriages, limited awareness, and scarce access to screening and prenatal counseling further contribute to the number of affected births. 

Life With and Without Treatment

For children like Waqar, the engine that keeps their body working is regular blood transfusion often every few weeks. Each transfusion helps fill the gap that his bone marrow cannot, boosting hemoglobin levels enough to keep him active and out of acute crisis. Alongside transfusions, iron chelation therapy is given to prevent excess iron from building up in organs (a side-effect of receiving blood repeatedly).

But consistent access to safe blood and chelation medicine is not a given. In Pakistan and many parts of South Asia, families often travel long distances to find properly screened and compatible blood, sometimes waiting hours in overcrowded centers. The financial cost, roughly thousands of Pakistani rupees each month for medicine and supplies is beyond reach for many families struggling to make ends meet. 

If a child without treatment could survive infancy, the body’s chronic anemia would lead to failure of multiple organs, dangerously low oxygen delivery to the heart and brain, and early death often before adolescence. With treatment, children like Waqar can survive into adulthood, but the quality of life is shaped by how dependable and comprehensive their medical care is.

The Family Behind the Child

Waqar’s mother recalls when he was diagnosed around his first birthday: “I remember holding him, so small, and feeling like the world had shifted.” It was the beginning of an unchosen routine: doctors’ visits, blood tests, transfusions, and an ever-present worry over infections or complications.

Their days are calibrated by waiting room chairs, the lull of hospital fans, and budgets spent on medicine instead of school supplies. Siblings learn early not to complain about minor injuries because their brother’s bare veins are already familiar with needles. Financial strain, emotional exhaustion, and the constant fear of something going wrong are not abstract concerns they are daily realities.

In communities where stigma and misunderstanding about thalassemia persist, families also wrestle with social isolation and lack of understanding. Some parents hesitate to talk openly about the disease, worried it will affect their child’s future opportunities or social acceptance. 

A Quiet Call for Awareness

There are medical efforts to expand carrier screening, premarital counseling, and community awareness, but implementation is uneven and limited. Prevention strategies including genetic counseling and prenatal diagnosis can significantly reduce the number of children born with beta-thalassemia major, but these services are often confined to urban centers and are unaffordable or unknown to many families. 

What Waqar’s story highlights is not just the clinical profile of a genetic disease, but the lived experience of a child and his family navigating a chronic condition in a resource limited context. It is a story that invites both empathy and action reminding us that behind every statistic is a beating heart, a family budget, and dreams for a future beyond transfusion chairs.

In Waqar’s eyes, when he is not tired, when he plays tag with his cousins, when he insists on reading aloud at bedtime, there is a simple truth: he is a child first, deserving of care, hope, and the possibility that one day, treatment and prevention will be not a luxury but a right for every family facing thalassemia.

Prayers for Waqar 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 - 244

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 244

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. 

Zohran was seven, small for his age, with a quiet curiosity that often made him linger a little longer under the sun when other children had gone home. He lives in a tiny village, where the earth smells of wet clay after rain and the days are measured by the crowing of roosters and the rhythmic hum of the river nearby. His house is modest, rooms with cracked walls and open corridors. Life is simple, and yet it is full for Zohran, full of the small adventures that children of his age often take for granted.

Lately, however, things began to change. Zohran finds himself getting tired more easily. Walking to school felt like trudging through mud even when the path is dry. His small hands, once quick to chase kites and catch sparrows, now trembles when he tried to hold his pencils steady. His mother noticed the bruises that appeared on his skin for no reason she could understand, and the nights when he would cough quietly in the dark, trying not to wake anyone.

His father, a man of few words who spent his days in the fields, tries to remain hopeful. He would tell Zohran to eat more, to sleep more, to take care of himself. But he, too, carrying a quiet worry, the kind that grows heavy in the chest and sits there, wordless, waiting. They had heard whispers in the village about strange illnesses, about children falling ill for no reason, but the words never had names. They don’t know the language of disease; they only knew fear and confusion.

The day they brought Zohran to the hospital, he didn’t really understand why he had to leave the village, why the white walls and bright lights felt so different from the soft earth of home. He clutched his mother’s hand, his small fingers gripping tightly, and asked quietly if he had done something wrong. She smiled softly, trying to mask her own worry, and shook her head. “No, beta, nothing is your fault,” she whispered. But even as she said it, she could feel the unfamiliar weight of uncertainty pressing against her chest.

In the hospital, the words came slowly, in a language that felt strange and heavy. “B-cell leukemia,” the doctor said, as if that explained everything, but it did not. To Zohran, it sounded like a spell from one of his storybooks, something distant, not real. To his parents, it was a word that carried the weight of a future they could not predict. Chemotherapy, blood tests, transfusions,  all of it was a rhythm that they had to follow without truly understanding, a dance of hope and fear.

The treatment days were long and quiet. Zohran spent hours sitting by the window, watching the birds outside, wishing to be among them again. He missed the smell of wet clay, the laughter of the children running barefoot along the dusty lanes. His small body bore the weight of the medicine, his energy slowly ebbing away. Some days, he would sit with his mother as she combed his hair, her hands trembling, trying not to cry. Other days, he would ask his father to tell him stories of the village, of the river and the trees, anything that could take him back to a world that still felt safe.

His parents are facing their own battles. They never imagined they will have to navigate hospitals, treatments, and medical jargon. Money was scarce, every trip to the city felt like a risk to their fragile savings. The neighbors whispered, some with sympathy, some with fear, but in their hearts, Zohran’s parents carrying the heaviest burden. They have to stay strong for him, to smile even when their own hearts aching, to make decisions about a future they can not predict.

Even so, in the quiet corners of the hospital, there were moments of tenderness. Zohran’s laughter, soft and fleeting, could light up a room. His curiosity, though dampened by fatigue, still peeking out in small ways a question about the clouds, a fascination with the shapes of the trees outside, a wonder at the colors of his medicine. His parents learning to celebrate small victories: a day without fever, a smile after a difficult treatment, a moment when he reached out to hold their hands without fear.

In the evenings, they sit together, holding each other’s hands in the dim light, finding comfort not in understanding everything, but in being together. The world outside is uncertain, sometimes harsh, but in those quiet moments, there is a fragile, enduring hope. Zohran do not fully understand what is happening to him, and his parents do not fully know what the future hold. Yet, amidst the fear and exhaustion, there is love patience, steadfast, and quietly fierce binding them together like the roots of a tree that refuse to break even in the strongest wind.

And so, their days continues, one at a time, carrying the weight of uncertainty with gentle courage, finding small moments of joy and connection in a world that had suddenly become so much bigger and stranger than the one they knew before.

Prayers for Zohran 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 - 243

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 243

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warriors and Survivors - 242

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 242

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

Ali’s Journey: A Young Boy Facing Leukemia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warriors and Survivors - 241

 Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 241

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

Zainab’s Quiet Battle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warriors and Survivors - 240

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 240

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warriors and Survivors - 239

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 239

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

Mahad’s Story: The Silence Between Hope and Fear

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warriors and Survivors - 238

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 238

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

Five year old Babar having a quiet battle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warriors and Survivors - 237

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warriors and Survivors - 232

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 232

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. 

Abu Bakar’s Story: A Child Too Young to Understand

Two-year-old Abu Bakar from Lahore is at an age where most children are busy learning words, pointing at colors, and asking for their favorite toys. For him, life has taken an unexpected turn that neither he nor his family could ever have imagined. He has been diagnosed with beta thalassemia, a condition that is unfamiliar to his parents and heavy with challenges.

The diagnosis came suddenly. Abu Bakar had been falling ill repeatedly, and his parents noticed he often looked pale and tired. At first, they thought it was due to simple weakness or lack of proper nutrition. Like many parents in families without medical background, they assumed he just needed better food, vitamins, or rest. But when his condition worsened and he started appearing increasingly lethargic, his parents finally took him to a local clinic. Blood tests were ordered, and that was when the word thalassemia entered their lives for the very first time.

For Abu Bakar’s parents, the doctor’s explanation was overwhelming. They are not highly educated and had never even heard of the disorder before. The medical terms sounded foreign, and they struggled to understand why their child who looked like any other toddler was facing such a serious lifelong condition. The news struck like a shock, their little boy would need regular blood transfusions to survive.

At first, the family felt lost. They wondered what they had done wrong, and like many parents in similar situations, they questioned if they were somehow responsible for their child’s illness. In their community, awareness about thalassemia is limited. The word itself carries fear, uncertainty, and confusion. But slowly, after several visits to the hospital and many discussions with doctors, they began to understand that this was not their fault it is a genetic condition that requires lifelong management.

Accepting reality was not easy. The thought of their child spending so much time in hospitals instead of playing freely at home was painful. But as days turned into weeks, Abu Bakar’s parents realized that treatment was the only way forward. They committed themselves to making sure he would never miss a transfusion, and his mother in particular became his constant companion, never leaving his side during hospital visits.

For little Abu Bakar, life feels different in ways he cannot yet explain. At two years old, he does not know what thalassemia means. He does not understand why he has to be taken to the hospital so often, or why nurses come close with needles and tubes. What he does know is that he is not at home as much as other children, and that his mother never let’s go of his hand in those strange hospital rooms. To him, this closeness is a comfort, but it also makes him cling even more tightly to her when he sees white coats and hears unfamiliar medical sounds.

Physically, Abu Bakar’s condition shows. He often feels weak, cannot play for long stretches like other children, and sometimes struggles with restlessness. His little body carries the burden of a disease he cannot name, and it shows in his pale skin and frequent fatigue. Mentally, though, he is still a child. He smiles at his toys, responds to his parents’ affection, and feels joy in the smallest of things whether it is a balloon at the hospital or a gentle hug at home.

For his parents, watching him live with this condition is both heartbreaking and motivating. They have learned that thalassemia is not a temporary illness but a lifelong challenge. Regular transfusions can help, but they also come with severe complications such as iron overload, cardiovascular complications requiring further treatment . The family is still in the early stages of navigating these realities, and each hospital visit deepens their awareness of what lies ahead.

Abu Bakar’s story is not just his alone. In Pakistan, many children are diagnosed with beta thalassemia every year, often in families that have little knowledge of the condition until it strikes. The illness does not only affect the child but reshapes the entire family’s life emotionally, financially, and socially. The shock of diagnosis, the burden of treatment, and the uncertainty of the future are experiences shared by countless parents like Abu Bakar’s.

Raising awareness is vital. Thalassemia can be prevented through simple premarital screening yet lack of awareness means many couples never know their carrier status. Families like Abu Bakar’s bear the weight of this gap in knowledge. By sharing their story, there is hope that more people will learn about thalassemia, its complications, and the importance of prevention.

As for Abu Bakar, he continues to live his childhood in fragments of hospital visits and quiet moments at home. He does not yet carry the knowledge of his condition, but he carries the love and care of his parents, who are slowly learning to face this reality with acceptance. His story reminds us that behind every medical term, there is a child too young to understand and a family learning, step by step, how to live with it.

Prayers for Abu Bakar 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 - 231

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 231

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.

Childhood Cancer Awareness Month: origins, the gold ribbon, and the global state of play

Why a month and a symbol matter

Childhood Cancer Awareness Month (observed in September in much of the world) is more than a public relations exercise, it is a coordinated platform to advance rapid diagnosis, secure resources for curative and supportive care, highlight survivorship and late effects, and push for systems level equity. The gold ribbon adopted internationally as the symbol for childhood cancer intentionally evokes value and rarity: “gold” to represent that children are precious and deserve prioritization in research, care and health policy. ACCO

How this movement rose to prominence

Public recognition and nationaldeclarations in the U.S. and coordinated global advocacy (professional societies, parent organizations and WHO partnerships) gradually consolidated September as the focal period for awareness and fundraising. In parallel, WHO and partner institutions created formal global initiatives to translate awareness into measurable gains in access and survival. World Health Organization

What causes childhood cancer? A practical clinical summary

• Etiology is heterogeneous and often idiosyncratic. Unlike many adult cancers where lifestyle exposures predominate, most pediatric cancers arise from developmental biology and genetics: somatic mutations during growth, inherited cancer-predisposition syndromes (e.g., RB1, TP53/Li-Fraumeni, etc.), chromosomal rearrangements, and less commonly specific environmental or infectious agents.

• Risk gradient and preventability: A minority of childhood cancers are plausibly preventable by environmental modification; most are not. That does not reduce the value of primary prevention where identifiable (e.g., reducing therapeutic radiation exposure where feasible), or of secondary strategies (early recognition and rapid referral).

• Clinical implication: maintain low threshold for evaluation of persistent unexplained signs (prolonged fever, pallor, weight loss, lymphadenopathy/masses, focal neuro signs) and prioritize timely diagnostic pathways to pediatric oncology.

Latest global numbers (key facts you need at a glance)

• Annual global burden: ~400,000 new cases of cancer are diagnosed each year among children and adolescents (0–19 years). World Health Organization

• Survival disparity HIC vs LMIC: In high-income countries where comprehensive services are accessible, >80% of children with cancer can be cured; in many low- and middle-income countries (LMICs) cure rates remain well below 30%, largely driven by delays in diagnosis, lack of diagnostic/treatment infrastructure, abandonment of therapy, and treatable-mortality (infection, malnutrition). World Health Organization+1

• Global 5-year net survival (average): Pooled global estimates illustrate a stark gap, recent aggregated estimates place global 5-year net survival in the 30–40% range (estimates such as ~37.4% are cited in advocacy and analytic summaries), underscoring inequity and the opportunity for impact. Children's Cancer Cause

• Trajectory in survival: High-income settings show continued improvement five- and ten-year survival have risen substantially over recent decades (for many common childhood cancers, 5-year survival now exceeds 80–90%); population trends from 1970s to the 2020s show major gains driven by risk-adapted chemotherapy, refined radiotherapy, transplant, supportive care and targeted agents. However, gains are uneven by cancer type (e.g., certain high-grade brain tumors and diffuse intrinsic pontine glioma still carry very poor prognosis). PMC

Where to focus clinical and public-health effort now

1. Systems for early detection and referral. In LMICs, downstaging (earlier stage at diagnosis) could deliver large survival gains. Strengthen primary care recognition, referral pathways, and pathology/imaging access. The Lancet

2. Access to standard therapies and supportive care. Many deaths are preventable (infection, hemorrhage, organ toxicity). Policies assuring essential cytotoxic and supportive medicines, blood products, and trained pediatric oncology nursing reduce mortality. World Health Organization

3. Reduce treatment toxicity and plan survivorship. In HICs the urgent agenda is reducing late effects organ toxicities, secondary malignancies, neurocognitive and psychosocial impacts while maintaining cure rates. Pharmacogenomics, dose optimization and less-toxic targeted approaches are central. PMC

4. Global partnerships and capacity building. The WHO Global Initiative for Childhood Cancer (goal: at least 60% global survival by 2030) is the operational framework for coordinated improvement; it prioritizes essential packages, workforce training, and data systems. Clinicians should engage with national cancer control plans and regional networks. World Health Organization

Final reflections

Awareness months do not substitute for systems change, but they catalyze resources and political will. As clinicians we must translate awareness into durable commitments: robust early diagnosis pathways, access to safe curative therapy, investment in survivorship, and international solidarity that closes the survival gap. Practically, that means advocating for reliable supply chains for pediatric oncology drugs and blood products, embedding pharmacogenomic approaches where evidence supports them, and supporting long-term follow-up structures that enable healthy survivorship.