Warriors and Survivors - 237

Warriors and Survivors - Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 237

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. 

Moaz: The Quiet Struggle of an Eight Year Old from Faisalabad

Eight year old Moaz used to be the loudest among his siblings. He had a laugh that could fill the small courtyard of their home in Faisalabad. Every evening after school, he would run out with his neighborhood friends, sometimes barefoot and carefree, playing cricket until his mother called him in for food. Life in their modest home was simple but full of little joys the kind that come from togetherness rather than comfort.

His parents never had much, but they managed. His father works long hours in a textile mill, and his mother takes care of the four children Moaz, his two younger sisters, and his older brother. They didn’t have big dreams; their hopes were the ordinary ones most parents carry quietly that their children would stay healthy, go to school, and someday live a life a little easier than theirs.

It began with small things tiredness, bruises that took too long to fade, a strange paleness in Moaz’s face that no amount of rest seemed to fix. His mother first thought it was the heat or maybe his lack of appetite. But when he started losing energy even for play, she knew something wasn’t right. After several visits to local clinics and some tests at the district hospital, the doctor finally said the words that would change everything “acute leukemia”.

In that moment, time seemed to stop for his parents. They didn’t know what leukemia really meant, but they could see the fear in the doctor’s eyes and feel the heaviness in his voice. The days that followed were filled with confusion, hospital visits, and long rides back and forth between Faisalabad and Lahore for tests and consultations.

At home, the other children have grown quieter. Moaz’s older brother tries to help their mother with chores, and the little sisters sit close to her when she cries, though they don’t really understand why. The house that once echoed with Moaz’s laughter now feels heavier, filled with whispered worries and sleepless nights.

The hardest part for his parents isn’t only the illness it’s the uncertainty. His father counts money every night, sitting on the edge of his bed, calculating how far his savings might go. He knows that treatment for leukemia can take months, maybe years. He tries not to let Moaz or the others see the worry on his face, but his wife knows. She sees it in his silence, in the way he avoids meeting her eyes when they talk about the next hospital visit.

Moaz, for his part, doesn’t fully understand what’s happening to him. He knows he feels tired all the time and that the hospital smells strange. He doesn’t like the needles, or the way his mother’s hand trembles when she holds his. He misses his school, his friends, and the games he used to play in the street. Some mornings he asks his mother when he can go back, and she just says “soon,” though she doesn’t know when that will be.

The doctors have explained the treatment plan chemotherapy, regular checkups, possible complications. They’ve told the parents what it might take, both medically and financially. The parents listen carefully, nodding even when they don’t fully understand, because they don’t want to seem helpless. But inside, they are scared, scared of losing their child, scared of not having enough, scared of what the next day might bring.

Every night, when the house is finally quiet, Moaz’s mother sits beside him and watches him sleep. She adjusts his blanket, runs her fingers through his hair, and prays not in long words, but in small, broken whispers only she and God can hear. Sometimes she remembers the way he used to run through the house, and she smiles for a moment before the tears come again.

There is no easy way to describe what families like Moaz’s go through. It’s not a story of heroism or grand victories. It’s a story of waiting, of doing the best they can with what little they have, of holding on to hope even when it feels too heavy.

For now, Moaz’s world is made of hospital rooms, soft voices, and gentle touches. His parents continue to travel, to ask, to hope. They are not sure how they will manage, but they know they must try. And somewhere in the quiet between their fear and their love, they find just enough strength to face another day.

Sometimes, love doesn’t look like strength or courage it looks like a mother sitting beside her child through the night, whispering the same prayer again and again, believing that somehow it will be heard.

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