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