Warriors and Survivors - 236

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 236

I am Rukh Yusuf, Clinical Pharmacist, also specialized in Total Parenteral Nutrition and Bone Marrow Transplant. I have worked in the Pediatric Oncology unit of a public hospital. 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. 

Title: Aftab’s Silent Battle

In the beautiful city of Sargodha, in a modest home and dusted sunlight, lives ten year-old Aftab a boy whose laughter once filled every corner of his house. He was the one who ran fastest in the narrow lanes, who dreamed of becoming a cricketer, and who believed pain was only a small thing that happened when you fell while playing. But now, pain has become something larger something that has moved into his days and refuses to leave.

Aftab is halfway through his treatment for Wilms tumor, a cancer of the kidney that no child should have to face. The hospital corridors, once confusing, are now familiar to him. The white coats, the beeping monitors, the smell of antiseptic each of these has become part of a world he never chose. He sits quietly during his chemotherapy sessions, his eyes distant, his small fingers gripping his mother’s hand a little tighter every time the nurse approaches with a syringe.

At ten, it’s hard to understand why the body turns against itself. It’s harder still to accept that the medicines meant to heal can also bring exhaustion, nausea, and hair falling in soft tufts on the pillow. Aftab doesn’t talk much these days. He used to ask questions about everything, but now his words are few. Sometimes he just stares at the window in silence, watching birds fly by. “They don’t have to come to hospitals,” he once whispered to his father.

His parents try to stay strong. His mother hides her tears until he’s asleep, while his father forces a smile and promises that things will soon get better. They tell him stories of children who have recovered, who are now back at school and playing cricket again. They show him pictures of the hospital staff who care deeply for children like him. But the hardest part for them is watching their son carry a sadness no child should ever carry.

Every hospital visit feels like an emotional climb for the whole family. His siblings wait at home, asking when Aftab will return to play with them. His grandmother prays every evening, her rosary beads worn thin. In their community, neighbors bring food and whisper words of support, yet they all know that courage is easier to speak of than to live through.

Aftab’s family has learned that cancer in childhood is not just a medical condition it is an emotional storm that tests the strength of everyone involved. Behind every hospital door are families like his, trying to hold on to hope one day at a time. They learn to celebrate the smallest victories a stable lab report, a day without vomiting, a smile after a long treatment session.

There are moments when Aftab’s spark flickers back. When his cousin visits with new cricket scores, or when a kind doctor gives him a sticker after chemotherapy, something in him softens. His father believes that even small moments of happiness are healing in their own way. “We will get through this,” he says, not just to his son, but to himself.

Aftab’s journey reminds us that pediatric oncology is not only about curing disease it’s about understanding the invisible weight a child carries. Every painful injection, every restless night, and every hospital trip is a quiet act of bravery. Children like Aftab teach us that strength is not loud it’s silent, persistent, and deeply human.

For those reading this, Aftab’s story is a gentle call to awareness. Thousands of children in Pakistan and across the world are fighting cancers like Wilms tumor. They need more than medical care they need emotional understanding, social support, and communities that stand beside their families without judgment or pity.

Aftab is still in the middle of his treatment, still learning to trust the process and believe that tomorrow will be kinder. His family continues to whisper hope into his tired heart, reminding him that healing takes time and that even on the hardest days, he is never alone.

Because somewhere in Sargodha, a little boy with sad eyes and a brave heart is teaching us all what courage truly looks like.

Prayers for Muhammad Aftab and all the sick children and their families who have to face this pain of cancer. May Allah make it easy for them. Aameen

Warriors and Survivors - 235

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 235

I am Rukh Yusuf, Clinical Pharmacist, also specialized in Total Parenteral Nutrition and Bone Marrow Transplant. I have worked in the Pediatric Oncology unit of a public hospital. 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. 

A Mother’s Hope and Ahmad’s Wish

In a small town in Punjab, five year old Muhammad Ahmad begins each day with a quiet determination that seems far too mature for his age. His world has changed completely since he was diagnosed with Wilms tumor, a rare kidney cancer that crept into his childhood when it had barely begun. Once filled with playtime, school, and laughter, his days are now marked by hospital corridors, soft voices of nurses, and the hum of medical machines. Yet amid it all, there is one thing that hasn’t changed his mother’s hope.

Every morning, before they leave for the hospital, his mother helps him get ready. She still combs his hair, ties his shoes, and packs a small toy car in his bag. “You’re stronger than this, Ahmad,” she whispers, the same words she’s said since the first day of treatment. Ahmad nods with a smile that tries to reassure her in return. That brief exchange has become their small shield against fear, a quiet ritual that carries them through uncertainty.

At the hospital, Ahmad’s world feels different. The other children there are fighting their own invisible battles. Some are too tired to speak, others find comfort in crayons and coloring books. Ahmad, even on his hardest days, asks for his favorite toy car. He moves it gently across the bedsheet, pretending the bed is a road. His mother watches, knowing that this tiny act this insistence on play is his way of saying he hasn’t given up.

The nurses often comment on his spirit. “He’s a brave one,” they say softly, adjusting his IV line. His mother nods, but inside she knows bravery doesn’t always look loud. Sometimes it looks like a child quietly holding on through pain, or a mother learning to smile when her heart feels heavy.

At night, when Ahmad finally falls asleep, his mother sits by his bedside, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. In those quiet hours, her thoughts wander. She remembers the day before the diagnosis, the laughter, the noise of the neighborhood, the smell of dinner cooking. Life was ordinary, and she never realized how precious that ordinary was.

Now, each day feels borrowed and sacred. She prays not for perfection, but for simple things: one good meal without nausea, one day without pain, one laugh that sounds like the old Ahmad. Her prayers are no longer about wishing away all sorrow; they’re about learning to live beside it.

There are moments of deep fear that she never voices aloud. When she sees another mother leaving the ward without her child, her heart trembles. She looks at Ahmad and silently renews her promise to keep believing, no matter what. That belief has become her strength. It keeps her standing, smiling, comforting, and hoping when everything else feels fragile.

Ahmad’s will to recover is gentle but firm. Even when fatigue weighs on him, he insists on small routines saying thank you to the nurses, asking for his favorite bedtime story, or whispering “I’m okay” after a difficult day. He reminds everyone around him that courage doesn’t always roar, sometimes, it whispers quietly but persistently.

His mother often says that Ahmad has taught her the true meaning of patience. “He faces pain with more calm than I ever could,” she tells the doctors. “He believes in healing in a way that keeps me going.” The doctors smile, acknowledging that sometimes children become the strongest teachers in these rooms of struggle.

On days when Ahmad’s treatment leaves him weak, his mother opens the curtains to let in the morning light. “See, Ahmad,” she says softly, “the sun came for you again.” He nods, too tired to speak, but his small smile says everything. That sunlight becomes a symbol for warmth, for tomorrow, for life beyond the illness.

Hope, for them, is not a grand declaration. It’s a series of small, consistent choices: showing up for every appointment, believing in recovery, and finding reasons to smile even when the day feels long. His mother carries this hope like a quiet flame that refuses to fade.

For now, Ahmad’s journey continues, marked by challenges and small triumphs. Each step, each test, each moment of rest brings them closer to something she cannot yet see but deeply believes in a future where Ahmad runs freely again, free from hospital walls and machines.

In their world, recovery isn’t just a medical word. It’s a daily act of love and resilience. It’s in Ahmad’s gentle will to get better and his mother’s unwavering faith that tomorrow will be kinder. Together, they walk through each day with quiet courage a mother’s hope lighting the path, and a child’s will leading the way.

Prayers for Muhammad Ahmad and all the sick children and their families who have to face this pain of cancer. May Allah make it easy for them. Aameen

Warriors and Survivors - 234

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 234

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. 

When a Childhood Stands Still: A Story from Sialkot

Ten year old Hamza from Sialkot was like any other bright, curious child. He loved cricket, math puzzles, and racing with his younger brothers after school. His mother, a schoolteacher, often said his laughter filled their home with life. His father, who also worked at the same school, took pride in his son’s energy and his endless questions about the world. But a few months ago, that laughter began to fade. Hamza grew tired easily, often complained of pain in his legs, and started missing school because of frequent fevers and unexplained bruises.

After several visits to the local clinic and countless tests, the diagnosis came, acute leukemia, a word that changed everything for Hamza and his family. For a ten year old, illness is often understood in fragments. Hamza knows he is sick and that his blood is “not working right.” He knows he has to go to the hospital often, that his hair is falling because of the medicines, and that sometimes he feels too weak to play. What he doesn’t understand is why this is happening or when it will end.

His parents, educated and thoughtful people, try to explain gently. They say the doctors are trying to help his blood make new, healthy cells. But no words can fully prepare a child for what follows the long hospital stays, the nausea after chemotherapy, the sterile smell of wards, and the sight of other children fighting the same silent battle.

For Hamza’s parents, each day feels like walking on thin ice. Both continue to teach at their school, but their minds remain elsewhere on the beeping machines, the lab reports, and the fragile body of their son. The hospital bills have started to pile up, and although they try to stay strong, fatigue shows in their eyes. They take turns staying with Hamza at the hospital while trying to care for their three other children at home.

The youngest, only five, often asks when his big brother will come home. The eldest sister, now thirteen, has started helping her mother more cooking simple meals and looking after her brothers. Their world has quietly rearranged itself around Hamza’s illness.

Illness in one child is never borne by that child alone. It ripples through the family, altering daily rhythms, emotional balance, and even financial stability. The home that once echoed with laughter now carries an undertone of worry and exhaustion. There are moments of hope when Hamza’s white cell counts improve or when the doctor says he’s responding to treatment but they are mixed with the anxiety of relapse and uncertainty about the future.

Hamza himself is learning resilience in ways children never should. He has grown quieter, observant of the nurses and their routines. Some days, he colors or reads in bed; other days, he simply lies still, watching light move across the ceiling. His body is fighting a disease most adults would struggle to comprehend. His parents tell him he’s brave, and he tries to believe them, even when tears fill his eyes after another injection.

Leukemia in children is one of the most treatable cancers when diagnosed early, but it requires long term care months, sometimes years of chemotherapy, blood tests, and emotional support. In Pakistan, where pediatric oncology resources are limited, families often travel far for specialized treatment. For parents like Hamza’s, who work in education and live on modest means, the cost is not only financial but deeply emotional. The constant uncertainty, the weight of watching your child suffer, and the helplessness of not being able to take the pain away these are burdens invisible to most.

Besides all this, there are glimpses of courage and love that hold the family together. Hamza’s mother keeps a journal of his recovery milestones. His father reads stories aloud during hospital nights. The siblings draw pictures to decorate his room. These small acts of hope, though ordinary, carry extraordinary strength.

Stories like Hamza’s remind us that pediatric cancer is not just a medical diagnosis it’s a family’s journey through fear, endurance, and hope. Each case is a call for awareness and compassion. Early detection, community support, and accessible oncology care can make a real difference in the lives of children like Hamza.

Behind every hospital bed lies a story not of defeat but of struggle. Hamza’s story is still being written with courage, care, and quiet faith. His parents continue to teach, his siblings continue to wait, and he continues to fight. In their resilience, there is a message for all of us to notice, to understand, and to support families navigating the long road of childhood cancer. Because every child deserves more than treatment, they deserve a chance to heal, to play again, and to simply be a child.

Prayers for Hamza and all the sick children and their families who have to face this pain of cancer. May Allah make it easy for them. Aameen

Warriors and Survivors - 233

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 233

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.

Bisma’s Journey with Leukemia

In a small town of Sialkot lives a five year old girl named Bisma. She is the youngest in her family and the only daughter of her parents, with two elder brothers who adore her deeply. A year ago, Bisma’s life, and that of her family, changed when she was diagnosed with leukemia. Since then, her days have been shaped not by the carefree routine of childhood but by hospital visits, long treatments, and the constant fight against illness.

Bisma’s father works at a local school. He spends his days teaching children and returns home to care for his own, carrying the weight of both responsibility and uncertainty. Her mother manages the home and, more importantly, has become the steady presence by Bisma’s side during treatment. The diagnosis of leukemia brought with it not only medical challenges but also emotional and practical struggles that the family continues to navigate every day.

For treatment, the family must travel from Sialkot to Lahore several times each month. Each journey is filled with its own set of difficulties early departures, long hours on the road, and the knowledge that the destination is another hospital ward. For a small child, the hospital can be overwhelming. The smell of antiseptic, the sound of medical machines, and the sight of needles are not what childhood should be made of. Yet Bisma has grown familiar with these surroundings.

Chemotherapy is a demanding process. It drains energy, affects appetite, and often brings side effects that are difficult to endure. Bisma, like many children in her situation, has had days where her playfulness fades under the weight of treatment. Still, in her quiet resilience, she shows strength beyond her years. Her smile, when it comes, brings comfort to her parents who wait anxiously for every sign of improvement.

Staying in the hospital is not easy for the family. Her mother spends long nights by her bedside, watching over her as she sleeps. The simple routines of home meals shared around a table, evenings with her brothers are replaced by the uncertainty of hospital corridors and schedules determined by treatment cycles. Her father divides his time between work, caring for his sons in Sialkot, and traveling to Lahore to support his wife and daughter. The strain of this separation is felt deeply, yet they continue to hold together as a family.

Financially and emotionally, the journey is heavy. Traveling frequently for treatment adds expenses, and the loss of normal family life adds to the burden. Yet despite the challenges, Bisma’s parents remain committed. They know that every difficult journey to Lahore, every long hospital stay, is a step toward giving their daughter the chance at recovery.

Her brothers wait eagerly for her return after each round of treatment. They understand, even at a young age, that their sister needs more care right now. Their small acts of love sharing toys, sitting quietly beside her become part of her healing environment when she is home. In their own way, they protect her from the weight of illness, reminding her of the joy of being a child.

Bisma’s story is not one of easy victories but of steady perseverance. It reflects the reality faced by many families in Pakistan and beyond families who must balance hope with hardship, and who discover resilience they never knew they had. The road between Sialkot and Lahore is not just a physical distance for her parents; it is a symbol of their determination to fight alongside their daughter, no matter how many miles it takes.

At only five years old, Bisma has already endured more than many adults face in a lifetime. Yet her story is not defined only by illness. It is also defined by the love of her parents, the quiet strength of her brothers, and the tireless efforts of doctors and nurses working toward her recovery.

For now, her journey continues marked by hospital visits, treatments, and the hope of brighter days. Bisma’s family holds on to that hope, believing that one day she will be able to return to the life every child deserves: a life of play, learning, and laughter, free from the dark shadows of a cruel disease.

Prayers for Bisma and all the sick children and their families who have to face this pain of cancer. May Allah make it easy for them. Aameen