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.

Warriors and Survivors - 230

 Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 230

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 Small Child-Big Diagnosis: Hammad’s Story

Hammad is only one and a half years old. At this age, most parents are caught up in watching their child take unsteady steps, speak their first clear words, and begin to show tiny glimpses of their personality. But for Hammad’s parents, life has taken a very different turn. Instead of simply enjoying these milestones, they are weighed down by the words of a diagnosis they had never even heard before: beta thalassemia.

When the doctor explained it, they could barely follow. The name itself felt heavy and foreign. They had taken Hammad to the clinic after noticing that he seemed unusually pale, often tired, and not as playful as other children his age. They thought maybe he was low in vitamins, maybe a simple syrup or tonic would help. But after blood tests, they were told their son had a serious blood disorder, something that would not go away with a short treatment.

For a moment, both parents were speechless. They did not know what to ask, because they did not even understand what it meant.

Coming to Terms with the Unknown

For families who have never heard of thalassemia, the diagnosis is not just frightening, it is confusing. Hammad’s parents had questions piling up in their minds: Will he recover? Will he always be sick? What does this mean for his future? They did not have the words to ask, and even when the doctor explained, it was difficult to absorb.

Beta thalassemia is a genetic blood disorder where the body cannot make enough healthy red blood cells. Without treatment, it causes severe anemia. The only way to manage it is through regular blood transfusions and ongoing medical care. For a small child, that means hospital visits will become a part of life.

When Hammad’s parents understood this, a silence settled over their home. They looked at their little boy, still smiling at them, too young to know anything about illness. And they wondered how they would carry him through this unknown road.

The First Steps in Care

The days after the diagnosis felt unreal. Relatives and friends asked about Hammad’s health, and his parents found themselves hesitating. How do you explain something that you are still struggling to understand yourself?

They began reading, searching, and asking doctors for more information. They learned that children with beta thalassemia often need transfusions every few weeks. They learned about iron buildup in the body, and the medicines that help reduce it. They learned that while there is no easy cure, medical advances and proper care can give these children a chance at a better life.

But behind every fact they read, there was a quiet ache. No parent imagines their toddler spending childhood in and out of hospitals.

The Emotional Weight

For Hammad’s parents, the hardest part is not just the treatment it is the uncertainty. They wonder how they will explain this to him when he grows older. They think about the financial and emotional burden of constant medical care. They worry about whether they will be strong enough to manage it all. Whether Hammad will be strong enough to bear this all

At the same time, they feel the quiet isolation that often comes with rare diagnoses. Few people around them truly understand what they are facing. And yet, their love for Hammad keeps them moving, one day at a time.

Why Awareness Matters

Hammad’s story is not just about one child. Every year, many families in South Asia and around the world discover that their child has thalassemia. Often, like Hammad’s parents, they hear the name for the very first time only after diagnosis.

What makes this especially important is that thalassemia is preventable. Since it is a genetic condition, couples can undergo simple blood tests before marriage or pregnancy to know if they carry the trait. If both parents are carriers, there is a risk of having a child with thalassemia.

Awareness can change futures. If more families knew about screening, many could be spared the shock and pain of an unexpected diagnosis. Communities could talk more openly about genetic conditions instead of keeping silent out of fear or stigma.

Looking Ahead

For now, Hammad is too young to know the challenges ahead. He still laughs when his father tosses him in the air, still clings to his mother when he feels sleepy, still lives in the innocence of babyhood. His parents, though, are beginning a journey they never imagined.

They are learning to balance hospital visits with normal family life, to manage their fears while giving Hammad the love and comfort every child deserves. And perhaps most importantly, they are learning that they are not alone. Other families have walked this road, support groups exist, and medical care though demanding, is possible.

A Gentle Reminder

Hammad’s story is a reminder for all of us. Illness does not only affect bodies; it touches families, hopes, and futures. Beta thalassemia is not just a medical condition it is a lifelong reality that parents and children must navigate together.

By talking about it, by sharing stories like Hammad’s, we can create understanding. We can encourage more people to get tested, more communities to support affected families, and more compassion for the quiet struggles that often go unseen.

Hammad’s parents still do not have all the answers. They are still speechless at times, still afraid. But they hold on to one truth: their little boy deserves every chance at life. And for him, they will face whatever comes next.

Prayers for Hammad 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 - 229

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 229

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.

Hassan’s Story

In a modest home tucked inside one of Lahore’s crowded neighborhoods, six-year-old Hassan once lived a life filled with ordinary joys. He loved to chase pigeons across the rooftop, play cricket with cousins in the narrow street, and fall asleep with a marble clenched tightly in his hand, as if it were treasure. His laughter often echoed through the courtyard, a sound his parents believed would never fade.

But life began to shift in small, troubling ways. Hassan grew tired more quickly, choosing to sit on the steps and watch his friends instead of joining their games. He began missing school, his appetite disappeared, and the sparkle in his eyes dulled. At first, his parents thought it was weakness, something a tonic or homemade remedies could fix. But hospital visits and endless tests finally revealed the truth: Hassan had cancer.

The news struck his parents like a blow they could not recover from. His father, a shopkeeper, spent that evening sitting in silence, unable to look at anyone. His mother cried quietly into her dupatta, careful not to let Hassan see her tears. She knew children sense more than they understand. How could she explain to her little boy that his childhood had been interrupted by an illness too heavy even for adults to bear?

From that moment, their lives were reshaped. Hospital corridors replaced playgrounds, and the sound of medical machines replaced the hum of everyday life. Hassan, once so full of restless energy, now spends hours lying in a hospital bed. His body has grown frail, but his spirit though fragile, still flickers. On better days, he asks for his toy car and pushes it gently along the blanket, a small reminder that beneath the illness, he is still a child.

His mother rarely leaves his side. She sleeps on a wooden bench beside his bed, her scarf folded into a thin pillow. Night after night, she watches his chest rise and fall, whispering quiet prayers into the silence. She remembers the days when he would climb onto her lap and beg her for stories. Now, she is the one telling him stories in the dim glow of hospital lights, trying to convince herself as much as him that everything will be all right.

Hassan’s father carries his burden differently. Each morning, he opens his shop, trying to earn just enough to pay for medicines and tests. In the evenings, he hurries to the hospital, exhaustion heavy on his face but determination in his eyes. Neighbors notice his struggle sometimes slipping him a small note of money, sometimes preparing meals for his family. These acts of kindness, however small, are lifelines that keep them afloat.

In Pakistan, families like Hassan’s face not just the illness but the crushing reality of cost, distance, and limited treatment options. Cancer care for children is not only a medical journey but a social and financial one. Parents often feel like they are carrying an impossible weight, yet they carry it still because the thought of giving up is more unbearable than the suffering itself.

And in the middle of it all is Hassan. His innocence makes the contrast sharper. A child of six should be learning new words at school, not new medical terms. He should be chasing kites on rooftops, not watching IV drips. Yet, despite everything, Hassan endures. Some days with tears, some days with laughter, always with a courage that humbles those around him.

His story is not only about illness. It is about the strength of a family who refuses to let go, about the resilience of a child who still finds reasons to smile, and about the quiet hope that grows even in the darkest hospital corridors. Hassan is more than a patient; he is a reminder that love, though tested by suffering, can still stand firm, carrying families through storms they never imagined facing.

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

Warriors and Survivors - 228

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 228

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. 

Eight-year-old Hammad

Hammad, an eight-year-old boy from Lahore, was recently diagnosed with acute myelocytic leukemia (AML), a serious and aggressive blood cancer. For a child and his family in Pakistan, the diagnosis brought not only fear but also a sudden and profound disruption to their daily lives. AML is a complex disease, requiring intensive treatment and close monitoring, and the uncertainty of outcomes in a resource-limited setting adds to the strain.

Diagnosing AML

The first days after Hammad’s diagnosis were overwhelming. The parents, who had always seen him as energetic and playful, now faced the challenge of understanding medical jargon and the gravity of his condition. The hospital became a second home, with long hours in consultation and waiting rooms, constant blood tests, and the introduction of chemotherapy protocols. For Hammad, the transition from his familiar home environment to the hospital was confusing and frightening. Simple routines like going to school, playing with friends, or even eating regular meals were replaced by sterile hospital corridors, the hum of IV pumps, and frequent needle sticks.

Treatment toll

Despite his young age, Hammad began to grasp the physical toll of his treatment. He experienced fatigue, nausea, and occasional fevers, which limited his ability to participate in activities he once loved. His appetite was inconsistent, and small daily tasks walking to the bathroom, brushing his teeth, or simply sitting up often required support from his parents or nurses. The hospital staff noticed these struggles and tried to create a comforting environment. Nurses spoke gently, explained procedures in ways he could understand, and allowed him small choices, like which flavor of oral medication he preferred, or which blanket he wanted during treatment. These small gestures helped Hammad maintain a sense of control amid the uncertainty.

Poor parents

For his parents, the burden was both emotional and financial. Each day at the hospital brought the cost of work and travel and lab tests, which was difficult to manage on their limited resources. They worried constantly about their son’s future, the potential side effects of chemotherapy, and the risk of complications. Nights at home were sleepless, filled with fears of infections or relapses. Their conversations often circled back to hope and concern, balancing medical information from doctors with the need to provide emotional support to Hammad.

From a medical perspective, Hammad’s care required careful coordination. His treatment involved a precise chemotherapy schedule, regular blood transfusions, and monitoring of infections, nutrition, and growth. The healthcare team is working, balancing aggressive treatment with the child’s comfort. Psychologists and child life specialists provided emotional support, using stories, toys, and simple explanations to help Hammad  and family understand his treatment. Social workers assisted the family in navigating financial aid options and connecting with community resources. The multidisciplinary approach ensured that Hammad was not only treated medically but also supported emotionally and socially.

The broader landscape

The broader picture highlights the challenges of AML in Pakistan. While medical interventions are available, outcomes are not guaranteed. Families must contend with limited healthcare infrastructure, the costs of care, and the emotional burden of AML disease. Hammad’s journey illustrates the intricate interplay between disease, treatment, family resilience, and healthcare support. It is a daily testament to the courage required not only by the child but by those who care for him including the health care staff.

Through all of this, Hammad continues to show glimpses of his former self a shy smile at the nurse who brings his favorite juice, a small laugh at a hospital clown, or a quiet moment reading a picture book with his mother. These moments are precious, reminders that even in the harshest circumstances, life retains its softness and hope. For Hammad, his family, and the healthcare team, the journey is ongoing, marked by challenges but also by the small victories that make each day meaningful.

Prayers for Hammad 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 - 227

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 227

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 Sudden Change

Muhammad Sohail, a seven-year-old boy from Punjab, had always been full of energy. He loved playing cricket in the streets and spending time outdoors. Over the past few months, however, his parents noticed changes that worried them. Frequent fevers, persistent vomiting, and sudden fatigue became part of his routine. Initially, they thought it was a minor illness, but when the symptoms persisted, they sought medical advice.

After several tests and hospital visits, the diagnosis came: Burkitt B-cell lymphoma. The news was devastating. Sohail’s parents, Amina and Imran, were overwhelmed by fear, confusion, and uncertainty. The hospital quickly became a regular part of life, and they had to navigate treatments, procedures, and unfamiliar medical terms, all while trying to protect their son from unnecessary worry.

Life Changes for a Child

For Sohail, life changed almost overnight. Days once filled with play were now dominated by doctor visits, blood tests, and chemotherapy sessions. The treatments were exhausting and sometimes painful, leaving him weak and unable to do the things he loved. He did not fully understand why he felt so tired or why he had to spend so much time in the hospital. His questions were simple: “Why do I feel sick?” or “When can I play again?” His parents answered as best as they could, offering comfort and explanations in ways he could understand.

Shifting Family Roles

At home, routines shifted dramatically. Ayesha, Sohail’s older sister, took on additional responsibilities to help around the house and support her parents. His grandparents tried to provide comfort, but they too were affected by worry. The parents’ days were filled with managing medications, meals, and rest for Sohail, often leaving them physically and emotionally exhausted.

Emotional Strain

The emotional toll was heavy. Amina often stayed awake at night worrying about her son’s condition and the effectiveness of his treatments. Imran held back tears so that his children would not feel more fear. The uncertainty of how Sohail’s illness would progress affected every aspect of family life, from work to daily routines.

Small Moments of Relief

Even amid difficulty, small moments offered brief relief. A day when Sohail could eat without nausea, sleep peacefully, or smile briefly was a reminder of life beyond illness. These moments did not erase the challenges, but they offered reassurance that progress, however small, was possible.

Practical Challenges

The family also faced practical challenges. Frequent hospital visits required transportation, medical expenses, and coordination of home responsibilities. These daily pressures added to the emotional strain, requiring careful planning and support from friends and neighbors.

Patience and Presence

Through these months, the family learned the importance of patience and presence. They faced setbacks, managed pain, and adjusted to a new reality, learning to focus on each day as it came. This experience was not about dramatized courage, but about ordinary people managing extraordinary circumstances.

A Real-Life Story

Muhammad Sohail’s story is a real account of a child and his family facing sudden serious illness they never imagined. It is about fatigue, worry, and emotional strain. It is about parents learning to care for a sick child while managing their own feelings of helplessness. It is about a little boy experiencing pain and confusion, and a family adapting to a difficult reality with patience and attention to his needs.

Theirs is not a story of dramatized heroism, but of ordinary people confronting extraordinary circumstances. It is a story of hurt, endurance, and presence an honest glimpse into the daily reality of uncertain life.

Prayers for M Sohail 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 - Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 226

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. 

In the heart of Gujranwala, life for most families is a blend of hard work, simple pleasures, and the daily effort to make ends meet. The streets are filled with the noise of motorbikes, street vendors calling out their prices, and the smell of fresh bread from roadside bakeries. For five-year-old Maria, this was the world she knew in a small rented home, the warmth of her mother’s cooking, and the laughter she shared with her older brother in the evenings.

Maria was just like any other child in her neighborhood. She loved wearing her bright pink dress, playing with her cousins. Every morning, she would eagerly pack her small school bag and rush to the gate, waiting for her father to walk her to the local nursery school.

But a few months ago, something began to change. Maria started coming home from school looking tired. She would sit quietly in a corner instead of running outside to play. At first, her parents thought it was the summer heat, or maybe she was just catching colds too often. Then came the bruises small, round marks on her legs and arms that wouldn’t go away. She began complaining about pain in her bones, and fevers became a regular visitor in their home.

Her parents took her to a nearby clinic, where the doctor prescribed medicines for weakness. But when her condition didn’t improve, a more experienced doctor recommended blood tests. The results came back with words her parents had never heard before: Pre B Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia : a type of blood cancer that affects the bone marrow and blood of young children.

For Maria’s parents, the world seemed to stop. They were not only hearing the word “cancer” for the first time in their family, but they were also faced with a reality they didn’t know how to manage. Cancer treatment meant hospital visits, chemotherapy sessions, blood transfusions, and regular lab work all things that cost far more than the family’s modest monthly income.

In Pakistan, for many families like Maria’s, a diagnosis like this is not just a health crisis, it is a financial and emotional earthquake. Her father, who works long hours in a small workshop, earns just enough to cover rent, groceries, and school fees. Now, every rupee has to be stretched further bus fares to the hospital, medicines not always available in government stock, and the cost of nutritious food for Maria’s weakened body.

The hospital trips have become part of their new routine. Maria clutches her small, worn-out doll during chemotherapy sessions. Sometimes she cries, but often she stays quiet, her big brown eyes fixed on the white walls of the ward. Her mother sits beside her, holding her hand, whispering prayers under her breath. Between treatments, Maria still asks about her school and her friends. She misses sitting on the classroom floor, writing letters in her notebook, and raising her hand when the teacher asked questions.

Her parents try to stay strong in front of her, but at night, when the children are asleep, they sit together in silence counting the days until the next hospital appointment, wondering how they will manage to pay for it, and praying for a miracle.

What keeps them going is Maria’s spirit. One afternoon, during a short break from the hospital, Maria looked at her mother and said, “Ammi, main theek ho jaungi, phir main school jaungi” “Mama, I will get better, then I will go to school.” For her parents, that simple sentence is a reminder of why they cannot give up.

In many neighborhoods across Pakistan, there are families like Maria’s ordinary people who are suddenly pulled into an extraordinary struggle. Their stories rarely make headlines, but they live them every day: the fear, the financial strain, the resilience, and above all, the love that pushes them forward.

Maria’s journey is still unfolding. The road ahead is long, but with each hospital visit, each small improvement in her blood counts, and each smile she manages to give, her family holds on to hope. She is not just a patient; she is a daughter, a sister, a student, and a little girl who dreams of returning to her classroom. And in the small lanes of Gujranwala, that dream is worth fighting for.

Prayers for Maria 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 - Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 225

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. 

Abdullah doesn’t talk much these days. He never really talked a lot before either, only enough to tell his mother when he was hungry, or to ask for his favorite red car that had gone missing under the sofa. Now, even those small requests have become rare.

At just four years old, Abdullah has been diagnosed with Pre B-cell Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia (ALL), a term far too long and heavy for someone so small. He doesn’t know what it means. He only knows that hospitals smell strange, the lights are always too bright, and the little pricks in his arm make him cry not because of pain, but because he’s tired of being held down.

What hurts the most is the confusion. Abdullah doesn't have the words to explain what he's feeling fatigue that turns into tantrums, discomfort that becomes silence, and fear that hides behind his big eyes. For a child who hasn't yet learned to name emotions, this journey is lonely in a way that even adults around him struggle to understand.

His mother, Amina, stays by his side. She hasn’t returned to her stitching work for weeks, though clients still call. The family’s second income is paused indefinitely. Abdullah’s father, Imran, divides his time between hospital visits, managing two shifts at a garment factory, and making sure his other children are fed and safe at home. They haven’t sat together as a family in days. They eat in turns now. Conversations revolve around test results, travel to the hospital, and how to pay for tomorrow’s blood work.

At the cancer ward, there are no grand declarations of strength. Only quiet negotiations: with pain, with time, with finances. Treatment brings hope, yes but also exhaustion. Some days, Amina watches Abdullah sleep and wonders whether he dreams of his old toys, or if those too have begun to fade from memory.

There are small joys that persist. Abdullah sometimes smiles when a nurse offers him a sticker, or when another child waves from across the room. He still smiles when he sees mango slices his favorite treat, though now he’s too nauseous to eat more than a bite. These moments are delicate and brief, but they are real. They don’t scream of victory, nor do they deny the struggle. They simply exist like Abdullah, quietly trying to make sense of a world that suddenly changed without asking him.

In many ways, Abdullah is like thousands of children in Pakistan who are diagnosed with cancer too young to understand but forced to endure. And his parents, like many others, navigate a daily equation that never seems to balance time, money, care, survival.

There is no ribbon-wrapped ending to this week’s story. Only a pause a space to see Abdullah, to sit with his silence, and to remember that sometimes the hardest part of childhood illness is not the pain, but the isolation of not knowing how to speak about it.

And yet, even in silence, Abdullah is present. Watching. Feeling. Waiting.

Prayers for Abdullah 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 - 224

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 224

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. 

Saqib Raza is twelve. He’s the kind of boy who didn’t sit still much. He ran fast. Played long. Knew every cricket ball in the street by its sound. His legs were his rhythm.

It was during a game that he fell. A rough patch of ground, a misstep—nothing that doesn’t happen to a boy once a week. He held his knee for a minute, then walked it off. That night, it swelled. His mother wrapped it with cloth soaked in warm salt water. She thought maybe he twisted it. He thought maybe he did, too.

But days passed. Then weeks. He started limping. Said it hurt “inside the bone.” That was a phrase that made his father pause. You don’t ignore pain when it reaches the bone.

They took him to a local clinic. Then another. Painkillers, rest, and reassurance followed. But the swelling stayed. The limp grew heavier. He stopped running altogether.

The diagnosis came slowly. X-rays in Sheikhupura, referrals to Lahore, and then an MRI. A biopsy was next. It wasn’t an infection, they said. It wasn’t just an injury. It was osteosarcoma —a bone cancer. And by the time they found it, it had already spread. Metastatic - that’s the word the doctor used.

Saqib didn’t ask what it meant. He just asked if he’d be able to walk again. The doctor didn’t answer right away.

Now he’s in the oncology ward at a hospital he’d never heard of before this year. He wears a mask, a hospital wristband, and a look that’s hard to name—somewhere between boredom and fear. Chemo has started. His body is starting to feel the weight of it. His legs, once always moving, now mostly rest under a cotton blanket. Sometimes he draws, though not much. He doesn’t like showing anyone what’s on the page.

His mother hasn’t been home in weeks. She sleeps on the bench next to his bed, folded into herself. His father travels back and forth from Muridke, juggling borrowed money and missed shifts at the factory. They haven’t told Saqib exactly how serious things are, but he’s not slow. He watches people when they think he’s not looking. He knows things aren’t simple.

Osteosarcoma is rare. And when it spreads, especially to the lungs, the road ahead becomes longer and harder. The treatment plan includes months of chemotherapy, possible surgery, and then more chemo. The doctors talk about response rates and staging. But Saqib doesn’t speak that language. His language is different.

He asks if his brother is using his cricket bat back home. He asks if he can bring his dog next time. He asks if there’s Wi-Fi on the third floor.

There are moments when he seems like just another 12-year-old. But there are others quiet, ordinary moments when you see the weight he carries. Like when he tries not to wince when the IV goes in. Or when he turns to face the wall so his mother won’t see the tears.

This story doesn’t have a resolution. He’s not healed. He’s not gone. He’s somewhere in the middle, suspended between a life that was full of running and a present that asks only for patience.

His parents don’t talk about the future much. They’re too busy surviving the present. Meals are shared on stairwells. Medicines are discussed with strangers. Prayers are whispered between phone calls to home.

Saqib doesn’t say much about what he feels. But one day, out of nowhere, he asked his mother, “Am I going to stay like this?”

She didn’t have an answer. She just ran her fingers through his hair and told him to sleep.

Prayers for Saqib 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 - 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