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