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
