Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 224
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
