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
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