Warriors & Survivors: May 2025

Friday, May 30, 2025

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

Friday, May 23, 2025

Warriors and Survivors - 214

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 214

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

Friday, May 16, 2025

Warriors and Survivors -213

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 213

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

Friday, May 9, 2025

Warriors and Survivors -212

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 212

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

Friday, May 2, 2025

Warriors and Survivors - 211

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 211

Badshah is a 13-year-old boy from Ferozewala, a small town just outside Lahore. Like many children his age, he enjoys playing cricket in the street with his friends and has a natural curiosity about the world around him. His family is modest, with his father working long hours as a daily wage laborer and his mother managing their home and caring for their three children. Until a few months ago, Badshah’s life was simple and peaceful. Then came a diagnosis that changed everything.

It started with weakness and swelling. Badshah began to lose his appetite and complained of pain in his abdomen. His mother noticed a swelling in his lower stomach, which didn’t go away. At first, the family thought it might be a stomach infection or maybe a minor issue. They took him to a nearby clinic, where doctors gave him some medicines for pain and digestion. But things didn’t improve.

As his condition worsened—he became more tired, started losing weight, and could barely eat—his parents knew something was seriously wrong. They gathered what little savings they had and took him to a government hospital in Lahore. There, after several blood tests and scans, the doctors suspected something more serious. He was referred to a larger facility for further evaluation.

The initial diagnosis was B-lymphoproliferative disorder, a type of disease where the body starts making too many abnormal B cells, which are a kind of white blood cell. Though the term was unfamiliar to the family, the doctors explained that it could be a type of cancer, but more tests were needed. That word—cancer—hit his parents hard. They had never imagined their healthy, playful child could have such a serious illness.

Badshah was then admitted to the Children’s Hospital in Lahore, where a team of specialists took over his care. It was here, after a biopsy and further investigations, that the final diagnosis was made: Burkitt Lymphoma, a rare but aggressive form of blood cancer that affects the lymphatic system. It spreads quickly, but if caught early, it can respond well to treatment.

For Badshah’s parents, the days that followed were some of the most difficult they had ever faced. The stress of not knowing what would happen, managing hospital visits, arranging finances, and caring for their other children felt overwhelming. His father had to take time off work, losing precious income, while his mother stayed by Badshah’s side in the hospital, sleeping on benches or hospital floors when beds were unavailable.

Treatment began quickly. Chemotherapy was started to try to control the fast-growing cancer. Badshah’s hair began to fall out, he felt nauseous, and he had to be kept away from infections due to his low immunity. There were days he didn’t feel like speaking at all. Other days he would ask his mother when he could go back home, when he could play again. It broke her heart to not have answers.

One of the most painful parts for the parents was watching their son go through pain they couldn’t take away. The strong medications made him weak, and there were times he cried through the night. His parents had to remain strong for him, even when they felt like breaking down. The support of doctors and nurses at the Children’s Hospital gave them some hope. They explained the treatment steps clearly and assured them that they were doing everything possible to help Badshah recover.

Outside of the hospital, life didn’t pause. Bills piled up, and the family depended on support from relatives and neighbors. It was a test of strength not just for Badshah but for the entire family. Still, they remained committed to his recovery, willing to make any sacrifice necessary.

Months have now passed since the first signs of illness. Badshah is still undergoing chemotherapy, and his journey is far from over. But he has responded well so far. The tumor has reduced in size, and his energy is slowly returning. He smiles sometimes, jokes with the nurses, and talks about going back to school when he feels better.

For a family from a small town with limited resources, facing a diagnosis like Burkitt Lymphoma can feel like entering an unknown world. But Badshah’s story is one of quiet courage. It is not full of drama or miracle cures—but of real people dealing with real struggles, step by step.

His parents still worry about what lies ahead, but they are also proud of how far their son has come. They continue to hope for his full recovery and a day when this chapter will be behind them.

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

Lots of prayers for Badshah to recover quickly and never experience his illnesses again. May she live happy and healthy life once again. Aameen.