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
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