Children Cancer Stories by Rukh Yusuf - Blog # 257
A few days before Eid, the ward already feels a little different.
Nothing changes in the routine. The monitors still beep, rounds still happen, medications still run on time. But in between all of that, small things start appearing. Bags of clothes arrive, soft colors, different sizes, carefully folded. Arranged every year quietly by Farida Apa, who somehow knows exactly how many children are in the ward and what might fit them. She really struggles to make all this happen. She sits with the staff, opening each bundle, checking sizes, sometimes holding a shirt up and saying, “This will fit him,” or “Keep this for the little one in bed three.” There is no rush in how she does it. Just a quiet certainty.
The mothers take those clothes and tuck them away carefully. Not to use immediately. For Eid.
Some cannot help but try them once. They hold a small kurta against their child’s chest or slip an arm through a sleeve just to see. “We will wear it on Eid,” they say, almost like a promise. The children ask simple questions. “Is this mine?” “Can I wear it now?”
The night before Eid stays calm.
Quieter than usual. No last minute chaos, no noise from kitchens, no rushing. Just the usual sounds of the ward, steady and familiar, with something slightly different in the background. Some parents stay up longer than usual. Not doing anything specific. Just sitting, watching, thinking.
Eid morning arrives softly.
You can sense it even before stepping into the rooms. The greetings begin early. A nurse says “Eid Mubarak” while checking vitals. Someone else smiles a little more than usual. It is subtle, but it is there.
Inside the rooms, the effort begins.
Mothers carefully dress their children. It takes time. There are lines, tapes, tired bodies. Some children cooperate, some get restless, some just stay quiet and let it happen. When it is done, the result is never perfect, but it does not matter.
For a moment, they look like children on Eid.
One boy insists on sitting up longer than he usually can, just so people can see his clothes. A little girl keeps touching the sleeve of her dress, as if making sure it is real. Another child holds onto a balloon brought in that morning, gripping it tightly, not letting it go.
Not every child manages the same.
In some beds, the clothes stay folded beside them. A mother places them near the pillow, as if that alone carries meaning. Some children are too tired to respond. They watch, half-awake, as things move around them.
In the ICU, the setting is quieter still.
The lights are softer, the space more controlled. Children lie still, connected to machines that breathe for them, that monitor every small change. There is no dressing up here, no movement for celebration only the steady rhythm of care. A parent sits nearby, holding a small hand, sometimes speaking softly, sometimes just watching.
But even then, no one is left out completely.
Someone comes by with a small sweet. A nurse pauses and says something kind. Another parent leans over and says, “Eid Mubarak,” even without knowing the family well.
There is no loud celebration.
No big meals. No crowded rooms. Just small moments that pass quietly.
A father returns after prayers, holding something simple like a toy, maybe, or a chocolate. He hands it over like it means more than it looks. A mother feeds her child a few spoonfuls of something sweet, even if they can barely manage it. And when they do eat, it feels like enough for that moment.
By midday, the ward slows down again.
The children grow tired. The clothes wrinkle. Balloons rest against beds or drift to the side. Some children fall asleep still holding what they received. Parents sit beside them, quieter now, adjusting blankets, fixing small things that do not really need fixing.
If you stay long enough, you notice something.
Eid is still happening. Just not in the way people outside imagine.
It is in the effort of saving those clothes for this day. In the way parents try, even when it is hard, to hold onto something familiar. In the way children respond even if it is just a small smile or sitting up a little longer than usual.
Nothing is exaggerated here.
Everyone understands this is not the Eid they wanted.
But no one lets it pass like an ordinary day either.
And maybe that is what stays with you, the quiet way it is still recognized, still held onto, even in the middle of everything else.
Prayers for these brave souls and their families who have to face this pain of cancer. May Allah make it easy for them. Aameen
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