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

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 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

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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

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 Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 219

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warriors and Survivors - 218

 Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 218

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warriors and Survivors - 217

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 217

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warriors and Survivors - 216

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

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. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warriors and Survivors - 215

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

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. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Family Displaced

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

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

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

A Life on Pause

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

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

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

Holding On

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

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

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

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

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

Warriors and Survivors - 214

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 214

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. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warriors and Survivors -213

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 213

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. 

Dua Fatima is just three years old. She comes from Lahore, a city of old trees, honking rickshaws, and streets lined with fruit sellers shouting prices that change with the weather. In her world, things used to be simple — her world was her mother, her pink sandals, a yellow cup she drank milk from, and the small corner of the house where sunlight came in every morning.

Now, her world is a pediatric oncology ward.

Dua was diagnosed with Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia (ALL) just two months before her third birthday. It started with nosebleeds. Then a strange tiredness, like she had forgotten how to be a toddler. She didn’t run anymore. She didn’t ask for the swing outside the house. Her appetite disappeared.

Her parents thought it might be anemia. They didn’t expect a blood cancer.

She has been in treatment for eight months now. Her father brings her to the hospital on a motorbike. She sits between her parents, wrapped in a thick shawl no matter the weather, because chemotherapy has made her bones cold in a way that doesn’t make sense for a child.

She doesn’t speak much. But she holds on tight to her yellow cup — she insists on drinking from it after every injection, every blood test, every round of chemo. Her mother washes it carefully, wraps it in clean cloth, and tucks it into the bag before each hospital visit.

Dua doesn’t scream or cry like some children do during treatment. She has learned silence instead. She flinches but doesn’t fight. She looks at the nurse, then at the ceiling. Her body knows what’s coming now.

Her mother told me once that the hardest part is watching your child grow smaller. Not thinner — smaller, like the world is shrinking around them. Dua no longer fits into the clothes she wore last winter. She no longer recognizes relatives who visit. The only person she leans on without hesitation is her mother.

Their finances are thin. Her father had to quit his job to manage hospital visits, and now they rely on donations and relatives who themselves live modest lives. At the hospital, her mother quietly skips meals so she can save whatever she can to buy the next week’s medicines.

But they come. Every time. No matter how far, no matter the cost.

There was a day, not long ago, when Dua smiled. It was brief. A clown came to the ward — not with balloons or loud laughter, just a red nose and gentle eyes. He made a balloon flower and handed it to her. She didn’t take it. But when he left, she whispered, “Phool.” Flower.

That was the first word she had spoken in days.

This is not a story with answers. ALL in children is treatable, yes, especially if caught early. But treatment is not the same as healing. And healing — real healing — takes more than medicines. It takes space, rest, food, love, and time. Too many children in countries like Pakistan don’t get all of these at once.

Dua is still in treatment. Her yellow cup is still by her side.

If you remember anything from this story, let it be this: somewhere in a crowded hospital in Lahore, a three-year-old is quietly fighting to stay alive — not with grand gestures, not with dramatic strength, but by holding on to something as simple as a yellow cup, and showing up every single day.

Prayers for the Ayeza 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 -212

 Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 212

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. 

Every week, I write about children whose lives have been quietly overtaken by cancer. Today, I want to tell you about Ayeza.

Ayeza is 10 years old. She comes from Gujrat, a small city in Pakistan where the streets are loud, the tea is strong, and most children spend their afternoons playing in dusty neighborhood. Ayeza used to be one of them. She loved skipping rope outside her home and had just learned to braid her own hair when everything changed.

A year ago, her mother noticed that Ayeza was getting tired more quickly than usual. At first, they thought it was the heat. Then came the bruises. Then the fevers. The local doctor wrote it off as a viral infection. But Ayeza kept getting worse.

Her parents took her to Lahore — a three-hour journey with a borrowed car and a bag full of prayers. That was the day they heard the word "Leukemia" for the first time.

It’s been twelve months since then.

Chemotherapy started almost immediately. Ayeza didn’t cry when she started losing her hairs. But she did ask her mother to save the hair so she could see it again someday. No one had the heart to say that it might not grow back for a long time.

Treatment days were long. Some start before sunrise, when her father lifts her gently from the bed and wraps her in a shawl, because even the early morning breeze hurts her skin. At the hospital, they wait for their turn and for chemo to finish. 

Her parents take turns sleeping so that one can be with her all the time. They can’t afford to leave her alone so hospital have become their world for a long time. Her little brother stays with relatives in Gujrat. He doesn’t understand why Ayeza can’t come home. Neither does she.

There’s a kind of waiting that comes with childhood cancer — waiting for blood counts to rise, for side effects to ease, for the nausea to settle. Waiting for scans. Waiting for good news. And for Ayeza, waiting to feel like herself again.

She misses school the most. Her notebooks lie untouched in a bag her teacher sent months ago. Sometimes, her mother reads out stories from them just to remind Ayeza of what it feels like to be in a classroom.

But this is also a story of quiet strength — not the kind that headlines talk about. This is the strength of holding still through painful procedures, of whispering a joke to her nurse on a tough day, of learning to walk again after weeks in bed. It’s not dramatic. It’s just steady.

There are days Ayeza asks, “When will I be done?” No one has a clear answer. Her doctors say the treatment will go on for another year. Her parents nod. They’ve learned that in cancer wards, hope is measured in weeks, not years.

This story doesn’t have a tidy ending — not yet. Ayeza is still in treatment. Some days are better. Some are very bad. But she is still here. And in a world where too many children in places like Gujrat are diagnosed too late or treated too little, her survival itself feels like something that must be noticed.

Not celebrated — just noticed.

So, if you’re reading this, think of Ayeza tonight. She is one of thousands. Her name may never make the news, but her life, like every child’s, is worth the world.

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