Warriors and Survivors - 240

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 240

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. 

Anam’s Story: A Small Girl Carrying a Heavy Illness

Anam is only five, but she has already learned more about hospitals, needles, and waiting rooms than most adults ever will. She was diagnosed with thalassemia major when she was four, a diagnosis her parents had never heard before, yet it changed the rhythm of their home overnight.

Thalassemia major is not just a condition that limits hemoglobin. It reshapes childhood. It replaces school mornings with hospital visits, replaces playtime with transfusion schedules, and turns a young girl’s life into a cycle of blood bags, iron chelation medicines, and constant monitoring. For Anam, this has become a normal routine, even though it is anything but normal.

Her parents describe the first months after diagnosis as a blur. They were told she would need lifetime blood transfusions every few weeks. They were told about iron overload, medicines to control it, strict monitoring, risks of infections, and the emotional toll of constant hospital care. They tried to absorb it all while watching their child sit quietly, holding her father’s hand, not understanding why the world around her had suddenly changed.

In many low - and middle-income countries, thalassemia is common due to high carrier rates, sometimes affecting 5% to 10% of the population. In some regions of South Asia, the Middle East, and parts of Africa, thousands of children like Anam rely on regular blood transfusions simply to stay alive. In developed world, carrier screening programs, better diagnostics, and more consistent health systems have lowered the number of new severe cases. Even then, children still face the long-term burden of treatment, but they often have more stable access to blood banks, chelation therapy, and follow up care. The contrast is stark, and families in developing regions feel that gap deeply.

For Anam’s parents, the biggest struggle has been securing regular transfusions on time. Each visit comes with the same fears: Will we find a matching unit today? Will the hospital have enough blood stock? Will the medicines be available this month? They have learned that caring for a child with thalassemia requires not just resilience but also a kind of quiet courage and patience, one that must be renewed with every hospital trip.

Some weeks, her father takes time off work and loses part of his day’s earnings. Other times, her mother makes long phone calls to blood banks and local volunteers the night before a scheduled transfusion, trying to arrange a donor just in case the hospital supply runs low. There were times when they waited for hours in overcrowded clinics, Anam resting her head on her mother’s lap, tired not only from low hemoglobin but from the long journey itself.

Chelation therapy, essential to control iron overload adds another layer of challenge. These medications can be expensive, require long term use, and sometimes cause side effects that are difficult for a small child to tolerate. Anam’s parents juggle these decisions carefully, often asking other families for advice and adjusting doses under medical guidance. Small details, finding pharmacies that stock the medication, keeping her on schedule, convincing her to take each dose, become part of their daily life.

Still, they say Anam rarely complains. She winces during IV insertions, grips her mother’s kurta tightly, and sometimes cries from the discomfort, but once the transfusion begins, she settles. She listens to stories, watches cartoons on her father’s phone, or simply sleeps. A few hours later, her cheeks look a little brighter. Her parents always notice that small change, it is the sign they hold onto.

Across many countries, organizations and public sector programs try to support children like Anam. Regional thalassemia foundations help coordinate donors and provide counseling. Some governments supply free or subsidized chelation therapy. Public hospitals set up dedicated transfusion centers, and local nonprofits organize blood drives. These efforts do not erase the illness, but they ease parts of the journey. Anam’s family has benefited from volunteer led blood donation groups more than once, and they say those moments feel like a gift from strangers.

But despite all support, the emotional weight remains. Childhood illness does not only affect the patient it reshapes entire families. Anam’s parents plan their weeks around transfusions. They track her lab values, budget for her hospital visit, and try to maintain a sense of normalcy at home. They do everything quietly, without dramatizing their struggles, because they want Anam to feel like she is still just a little girl.

And she is. She loves coloring books, her pink slippers, and the swing in the small park near their house. On days when her hemoglobin is higher, she plays a little longer and laughs more freely. Her parents say those are the moments that keep them moving forward.

Anam’s life is not defined by thalassemia, but by the strength she shows while living with it. And her story is one of thousands of children whose childhoods are shaped by a condition they did nothing to deserve, yet they face it with a quiet patience and bravery that humbles everyone around them.

Anam’s life is shaped by thalassemia, but it is not limited by it. What stands out most is not the illness itself, but the way she carries it without bitterness, without asking why, simply moving through each hospital visit with the kind of resilience children rarely get credit for. Her parents often say they learn strength from her. On good days, when she runs a little faster or laughs a little louder, they feel as if the whole world has eased for a moment. Those small, ordinary moments are what keep them going. They hold onto them quietly, hoping for more days when Anam can just be a child, free from hospitals, needles, and the weight she never chose to carry.

Prayers for Anam 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 - 239

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 239

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. 

Mahad’s Story: The Silence Between Hope and Fear

When eight-year-old Mahad first fell ill, his parents thought it was just another passing infection,  a fever that would fade with a few days of rest. He was an active boy, full of curiosity, the middle child who always managed to find his own space between his older sister’s seriousness and his younger brother’s endless chatter. But this time, the fever didn’t fade. His tiredness lingered, his once bright eyes seemed dull, and soon the bruises on his legs began to worry his mother.

The day the doctor said acute leukemia, everything went quiet. It wasn’t the kind of silence that follows good news or even confusion, it was heavy, still, and hollow. His mother’s heart pounded in her chest, searching for something, anything, to hold onto. His father, though composed on the outside, felt an ache that words couldn’t reach. In that single moment, their world, once predictable and safe, turned into one filled with uncertainty and fear.

Mahad didn’t understand much at first. Cancer was just a word he had heard adults whisper about. But when he noticed how carefully his mother watched him, how softly his father spoke, and how his siblings grew quieter around him, he sensed that something had changed. He asked once, “Am I going to miss school for long?” His mother smiled  the kind of smile that hides tears and told him he would go back soon. But deep inside, she didn’t know when or if things would ever feel normal again.

The hospital became their second home. The smell of antiseptic, the quiet hum of machines, and the sight of other children with masks and IV lines became part of Mahad’s new world. Each visit brought needles, blood draws, and the fatigue that made him too tired to play. Some days, he would stare out the hospital window, watching the cars move outside, wondering if any of them carried his friends on their way to school.

His parents tried to stay strong  they knew he watched them closely. His father began reading him stories about brave children and superheroes. Mahad listened, but he didn’t see himself as a hero. He missed running barefoot in the garden, laughing with his siblings, and sleeping without the smell of medicine around him. He wasn’t thinking about bravery he was just thinking about getting back to his old self.

The nights were the hardest for his mother. After everyone fell asleep, she sat beside his bed, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. She prayed silently, asking for strength, for healing, for a miracle. Her mind went through endless questions Why him? Did we miss something? How do we protect him from all this? There was fear, guilt, and an unbearable helplessness that she had never felt before.

His father, too, carried the weight differently. He spent long hours at the hospital and even longer nights staring at medical reports he barely understood. A man who had always known how to fix things now stood in front of something he couldn’t control. Sometimes, he would step out into the hospital corridor just to breathe  a long, deep breath that was part prayer, part surrender.

Mahad noticed the fatigue in their eyes, even if they tried to hide it. Once, he told his father softly, “Don’t worry, Baba, I’ll be fine.” It wasn’t bravado or denial  it was his gentle way of comforting them, of trying to make things a little easier for the people who loved him most.

Every round of treatment brought its own rhythm moments of improvement, followed by days of exhaustion. The doctors explained things in careful tones, always balancing hope with caution. The family learned to celebrate small victories: a day without fever, a meal he could eat without nausea, a moment when he smiled again.

But beneath the hope, there was always fear  the fear that comes when life no longer follows the rules you thought it did. The fear of losing a child, the fear of the unknown, and the fear that even the best doctors might not have all the answers.

Mahad’s mother once said to a nurse, “It feels like we’re holding our breath all the time.” The nurse nodded she had seen that look before in many parents’ eyes. It’s the look of people walking a path they never imagined, one that tests every ounce of strength and faith they have.

And yet, during the uncertainty, there were moments of grace. Mahad’s laughter, faint but still there, would fill the hospital room like sunlight. His siblings would draw pictures for him, taping them to the walls beside his bed. His parents learned to hold each day gently, without rushing ahead.

This is not a story about triumph or declarations of strength. It is a story of love that trembles but doesn’t give up, of a child facing a reality far too big for his years, and of parents who learn that courage often means showing up  even when nothing is certain.

Mahad’s journey is still unfolding. Each day brings both fear and hope. His family lives between them, holding on to every smile, every quiet moment, and every breath that reminds them that life, even in its most fragile form, is worth holding onto.

Prayers for Mahad 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 - 238

Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 238

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. 

Five year old Babar having a quiet battle

Babar is a five-year-old boy from a small village in Swat. His father grows wheat and corn on a small patch of land that barely sustains the family of six. The days in their home once followed a simple rhythm, Babar running through the fields, chasing chickens, laughing as his elder sister tried to catch him before evening prayers. His mother says he was the liveliest of all her children, always humming songs under his breath and curious about everything from how seeds grow to why the clouds move.

It began quietly, as such things often do. One morning, his mother noticed that Babar wasn’t as playful as usual. He complained of pain in his legs and didn’t want to eat his breakfast. They thought it was a passing illness perhaps weakness from the changing weather or another bout of seasonal flu. The local dispenser gave him vitamins and syrup. But his energy kept fading. Within a few weeks, his laughter turned into a tired silence. His skin grew pale, and bruises began appearing on his arms without reason.

At night, his parents whispered their worries. His father thought maybe it was the “bad air” from the nearby fields or something he ate. They tried home remedies, prayers, and visits to the village clinic. But nothing helped. When his fever persisted and his gums started bleeding one evening, they rushed to the district hospital. The doctors there looked concerned and advised them to take him to Lahore to the Children’s Hospital for further tests.

It was their first journey out of Swat. The father borrowed money from a neighbor to cover bus fare. His mother packed two sets of clothes for Babar and one for herself, wrapping them in a thin blanket. The journey to Lahore was long, nearly twelve hours, filled with silence. Babar slept most of the way, his head resting on his mother’s lap, her hand trembling as she brushed his hair.

At the Children’s Hospital, the corridors were filled with the quiet hum of machines and the muffled cries of children. The doctors examined Babar and ordered blood tests and a bone marrow biopsy. The word “Leukemia” was first spoken that day a word that meant nothing to his parents. The doctor explained gently, trying to find the right language. He said, “Babar’s blood has gone sick. It’s a kind of cancer.”

His father nodded slowly, not fully understanding. His mother’s eyes filled with tears, though she didn’t yet grasp the meaning. All she knew was that her son her youngest, her most cheerful was now lying in a hospital bed, too weak to lift his toy car.

Days turned into weeks. Chemotherapy began,  a word that sounded as heavy as the treatment felt. The medicines made Babar nauseous, and his hair began to fall out in clumps. He stopped recognizing himself in the small mirror the nurse kept by his bed. His parents tried to stay strong, but they often felt lost, lost in the city, lost among medical words they could not pronounce, lost in the fear of how long they could afford to stay.

Back home, their land remained untended. The crops suffered. Babar’s father visited once a month to check the fields, returning with worry of mounting debts. His mother stayed by Babar’s side, sleeping on a mat beside his bed. Some nights she prayed quietly; other nights, she simply held his small hand and listened to his uneven breathing.

The hospital had other families like theirs, parents from faraway villages, each carrying a story that began with a child’s sudden sickness. They shared meals, stories, and moments of wordless understanding. Sometimes Babar played with another child in the ward, both of them pushing IV poles as if they were toy trucks. Those small moments of laughter made the days bearable.

Babar is still in treatment. The doctors say he is responding, though slowly. His parents have learned to recognize the ups and downs, the hopeful mornings, the difficult nights, the endless waiting. They no longer talk about the future in big words. For now, it is enough that he eats a little more, smiles a little, or sleeps peacefully through the night.

Back in Swat, his siblings ask when he will come home. His mother tells them, “Soon, Insha’Allah,” though she knows the road ahead is uncertain. She says it softly, with the quiet strength that comes from love, the kind of strength that doesn’t make headlines, but keeps a family going one day at a time.

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