Warriors & Survivors: August 2025

Friday, August 29, 2025

Warriors and Survivors - 228

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 228

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.

Eight-year-old Hammad

Hammad, an eight-year-old boy from Lahore, was recently diagnosed with acute myelocytic leukemia (AML), a serious and aggressive blood cancer. For a child and his family in Pakistan, the diagnosis brought not only fear but also a sudden and profound disruption to their daily lives. AML is a complex disease, requiring intensive treatment and close monitoring, and the uncertainty of outcomes in a resource-limited setting adds to the strain.

Diagnosing AML

The first days after Hammad’s diagnosis were overwhelming. The parents, who had always seen him as energetic and playful, now faced the challenge of understanding medical jargon and the gravity of his condition. The hospital became a second home, with long hours in consultation and waiting rooms, constant blood tests, and the introduction of chemotherapy protocols. For Hammad, the transition from his familiar home environment to the hospital was confusing and frightening. Simple routines like going to school, playing with friends, or even eating regular meals were replaced by sterile hospital corridors, the hum of IV pumps, and frequent needle sticks.

Treatment toll

Despite his young age, Hammad began to grasp the physical toll of his treatment. He experienced fatigue, nausea, and occasional fevers, which limited his ability to participate in activities he once loved. His appetite was inconsistent, and small daily tasks walking to the bathroom, brushing his teeth, or simply sitting up often required support from his parents or nurses. The hospital staff noticed these struggles and tried to create a comforting environment. Nurses spoke gently, explained procedures in ways he could understand, and allowed him small choices, like which flavor of oral medication he preferred, or which blanket he wanted during treatment. These small gestures helped Hammad maintain a sense of control amid the uncertainty.

Poor parents

For his parents, the burden was both emotional and financial. Each day at the hospital brought the cost of work and travel and lab tests, which was difficult to manage on their limited resources. They worried constantly about their son’s future, the potential side effects of chemotherapy, and the risk of complications. Nights at home were sleepless, filled with fears of infections or relapses. Their conversations often circled back to hope and concern, balancing medical information from doctors with the need to provide emotional support to Hammad.

From a medical perspective, Hammad’s care required careful coordination. His treatment involved a precise chemotherapy schedule, regular blood transfusions, and monitoring of infections, nutrition, and growth. The healthcare team is working, balancing aggressive treatment with the child’s comfort. Psychologists and child life specialists provided emotional support, using stories, toys, and simple explanations to help Hammad and family understand his treatment. Social workers assisted the family in navigating financial aid options and connecting with community resources. The multidisciplinary approach ensured that Hammad was not only treated medically but also supported emotionally and socially.

The broader landscape

The broader picture highlights the challenges of AML in Pakistan. While medical interventions are available, outcomes are not guaranteed. Families must contend with limited healthcare infrastructure, the costs of care, and the emotional burden of AML disease. Hammad’s journey illustrates the intricate interplay between disease, treatment, family resilience, and healthcare support. It is a daily testament to the courage required not only by the child but by those who care for him including the health care staff.

Through all of this, Hammad continues to show glimpses of his former self a shy smile at the nurse who brings his favorite juice, a small laugh at a hospital clown, or a quiet moment reading a picture book with his mother. These moments are precious, reminders that even in the harshest circumstances, life retains its softness and hope. For Hammad, his family, and the healthcare team, the journey is ongoing, marked by challenges but also by the small victories that make each day meaningful.

Prayers for Hammad 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, August 22, 2025

Warriors and Survivors - 227

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 227

A Sudden Change

Muhammad Sohail, a seven-year-old boy from Punjab, had always been full of energy. He loved playing cricket in the streets and spending time outdoors. Over the past few months, however, his parents noticed changes that worried them. Frequent fevers, persistent vomiting, and sudden fatigue became part of his routine. Initially, they thought it was a minor illness, but when the symptoms persisted, they sought medical advice.

After several tests and hospital visits, the diagnosis came: Burkitt B-cell lymphoma. The news was devastating. Sohail’s parents, Amina and Imran, were overwhelmed by fear, confusion, and uncertainty. The hospital quickly became a regular part of life, and they had to navigate treatments, procedures, and unfamiliar medical terms, all while trying to protect their son from unnecessary worry.

Life Changes for a Child

For Sohail, life changed almost overnight. Days once filled with play were now dominated by doctor visits, blood tests, and chemotherapy sessions. The treatments were exhausting and sometimes painful, leaving him weak and unable to do the things he loved. He did not fully understand why he felt so tired or why he had to spend so much time in the hospital. His questions were simple: “Why do I feel sick?” or “When can I play again?” His parents answered as best as they could, offering comfort and explanations in ways he could understand.

Shifting Family Roles

At home, routines shifted dramatically. Ayesha, Sohail’s older sister, took on additional responsibilities to help around the house and support her parents. His grandparents tried to provide comfort, but they too were affected by worry. The parents’ days were filled with managing medications, meals, and rest for Sohail, often leaving them physically and emotionally exhausted.

Emotional Strain

The emotional toll was heavy. Amina often stayed awake at night worrying about her son’s condition and the effectiveness of his treatments. Imran held back tears so that his children would not feel more fear. The uncertainty of how Sohail’s illness would progress affected every aspect of family life, from work to daily routines.

Small Moments of Relief

Even amid difficulty, small moments offered brief relief. A day when Sohail could eat without nausea, sleep peacefully, or smile briefly was a reminder of life beyond illness. These moments did not erase the challenges, but they offered reassurance that progress, however small, was possible.

Practical Challenges

The family also faced practical challenges. Frequent hospital visits required transportation, medical expenses, and coordination of home responsibilities. These daily pressures added to the emotional strain, requiring careful planning and support from friends and neighbors.

Patience and Presence

Through these months, the family learned the importance of patience and presence. They faced setbacks, managed pain, and adjusted to a new reality, learning to focus on each day as it came. This experience was not about dramatized courage, but about ordinary people managing extraordinary circumstances.

A Real-Life Story

Muhammad Sohail’s story is a real account of a child and his family facing sudden serious illness they never imagined. It is about fatigue, worry, and emotional strain. It is about parents learning to care for a sick child while managing their own feelings of helplessness. It is about a little boy experiencing pain and confusion, and a family adapting to a difficult reality with patience and attention to his needs.

Theirs is not a story of dramatized heroism, but of ordinary people confronting extraordinary circumstances. It is a story of hurt, endurance, and presence an honest glimpse into the daily reality of uncertain life.

Prayers for M Sohail 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, August 15, 2025

Warriors and Survivors - Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 226

In the heart of Gujranwala, life for most families is a blend of hard work, simple pleasures, and the daily effort to make ends meet. The streets are filled with the noise of motorbikes, street vendors calling out their prices, and the smell of fresh bread from roadside bakeries. For five-year-old Maria, this was the world she knew in a small rented home, the warmth of her mother’s cooking, and the laughter she shared with her older brother in the evenings.

Maria was just like any other child in her neighborhood. She loved wearing her bright pink dress, playing with her cousins. Every morning, she would eagerly pack her small school bag and rush to the gate, waiting for her father to walk her to the local nursery school.

But a few months ago, something began to change. Maria started coming home from school looking tired. She would sit quietly in a corner instead of running outside to play. At first, her parents thought it was the summer heat, or maybe she was just catching colds too often. Then came the bruises small, round marks on her legs and arms that wouldn’t go away. She began complaining about pain in her bones, and fevers became a regular visitor in their home.

Her parents took her to a nearby clinic, where the doctor prescribed medicines for weakness. But when her condition didn’t improve, a more experienced doctor recommended blood tests. The results came back with words her parents had never heard before: Pre B Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia : a type of blood cancer that affects the bone marrow and blood of young children.

For Maria’s parents, the world seemed to stop. They were not only hearing the word “cancer” for the first time in their family, but they were also faced with a reality they didn’t know how to manage. Cancer treatment meant hospital visits, chemotherapy sessions, blood transfusions, and regular lab work all things that cost far more than the family’s modest monthly income.

In Pakistan, for many families like Maria’s, a diagnosis like this is not just a health crisis, it is a financial and emotional earthquake. Her father, who works long hours in a small workshop, earns just enough to cover rent, groceries, and school fees. Now, every rupee has to be stretched further bus fares to the hospital, medicines not always available in government stock, and the cost of nutritious food for Maria’s weakened body.

The hospital trips have become part of their new routine. Maria clutches her small, worn-out doll during chemotherapy sessions. Sometimes she cries, but often she stays quiet, her big brown eyes fixed on the white walls of the ward. Her mother sits beside her, holding her hand, whispering prayers under her breath. Between treatments, Maria still asks about her school and her friends. She misses sitting on the classroom floor, writing letters in her notebook, and raising her hand when the teacher asked questions.

Her parents try to stay strong in front of her, but at night, when the children are asleep, they sit together in silence counting the days until the next hospital appointment, wondering how they will manage to pay for it, and praying for a miracle.

What keeps them going is Maria’s spirit. One afternoon, during a short break from the hospital, Maria looked at her mother and said, “Ammi, main theek ho jaungi, phir main school jaungi” “Mama, I will get better, then I will go to school.” For her parents, that simple sentence is a reminder of why they cannot give up.

In many neighborhoods across Pakistan, there are families like Maria’s ordinary people who are suddenly pulled into an extraordinary struggle. Their stories rarely make headlines, but they live them every day: the fear, the financial strain, the resilience, and above all, the love that pushes them forward.

Maria’s journey is still unfolding. The road ahead is long, but with each hospital visit, each small improvement in her blood counts, and each smile she manages to give, her family holds on to hope. She is not just a patient; she is a daughter, a sister, a student, and a little girl who dreams of returning to her classroom. And in the small lanes of Gujranwala, that dream is worth fighting for.

Prayers for Maria 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, August 8, 2025

Warriors and Survivors - Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 225

Abdullah doesn’t talk much these days. He never really talked a lot before either, only enough to tell his mother when he was hungry, or to ask for his favorite red car that had gone missing under the sofa. Now, even those small requests have become rare.

At just four years old, Abdullah has been diagnosed with Pre B-cell Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia (ALL), a term far too long and heavy for someone so small. He doesn’t know what it means. He only knows that hospitals smell strange, the lights are always too bright, and the little pricks in his arm make him cry not because of pain, but because he’s tired of being held down.

What hurts the most is the confusion. Abdullah doesn't have the words to explain what he's feeling fatigue that turns into tantrums, discomfort that becomes silence, and fear that hides behind his big eyes. For a child who hasn't yet learned to name emotions, this journey is lonely in a way that even adults around him struggle to understand.

His mother, Amina, stays by his side. She hasn’t returned to her stitching work for weeks, though clients still call. The family’s second income is paused indefinitely. Abdullah’s father, Imran, divides his time between hospital visits, managing two shifts at a garment factory, and making sure his other children are fed and safe at home. They haven’t sat together as a family in days. They eat in turns now. Conversations revolve around test results, travel to the hospital, and how to pay for tomorrow’s blood work.

At the cancer ward, there are no grand declarations of strength. Only quiet negotiations: with pain, with time, with finances. Treatment brings hope, yes but also exhaustion. Some days, Amina watches Abdullah sleep and wonders whether he dreams of his old toys, or if those too have begun to fade from memory.

There are small joys that persist. Abdullah sometimes smiles when a nurse offers him a sticker, or when another child waves from across the room. He still smiles when he sees mango slices his favorite treat, though now he’s too nauseous to eat more than a bite. These moments are delicate and brief, but they are real. They don’t scream of victory, nor do they deny the struggle. They simply exist like Abdullah, quietly trying to make sense of a world that suddenly changed without asking him.

In many ways, Abdullah is like thousands of children in Pakistan who are diagnosed with cancer too young to understand but forced to endure. And his parents, like many others, navigate a daily equation that never seems to balance time, money, care, survival.

There is no ribbon-wrapped ending to this week’s story. Only a pause a space to see Abdullah, to sit with his silence, and to remember that sometimes the hardest part of childhood illness is not the pain, but the isolation of not knowing how to speak about it.

And yet, even in silence, Abdullah is present. Watching. Feeling. Waiting.

Prayers for Abdullah 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, August 1, 2025

Warriors and Survivors - 224

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