She was just a child when we first met her - wide-eyed, quiet, yet with a strength in her gaze that made you pause. At only 11 years old, she was diagnosed with lymphoma. Even at that young age, she faced chemotherapy with a kind of grace that most adults struggle to summon. We got her through it. And then she went on to live a normal life - or so we hoped. Nine years later, the nightmare returned. The cancer was back.

The relapse hit hard. Emotionally. Medically. Logistically. She was now a teenager, full of dreams just beginning to take shape - and yet, they were quickly overshadowed by hospital beds, scans, and toxic drugs. We planned for an autologous bone marrow transplant, but she struggled with chemotherapy. The cytopenias were relentless, the complications frequent. Her body, once resilient, seemed to be giving up. Two lines of salvage therapy failed. The disease persisted.

Options were running out. CAR-T cell therapy and newer targeted treatments were unavailable at our centre then. It was one of the most difficult tumour board discussions I’ve ever been part of. Palliation was considered. I remember her sitting quietly with her parents, nodding, absorbing everything. There were no tears. Just a strange calm, like she had decided to keep trusting us even when the odds were no longer in her favour. And perhaps that was what moved us the most. Her unshaken faith in herself, in life, and in us.

My seniors stood with me in one of the toughest decisions of my career - we would try one more time. So we made a decision - one last attempt. We used a gemcitabine-based chemotherapy protocol, fully aware of how tough it would be on her already weakened system. But against all odds, something shifted. Her scans started improving. Then came the call from the PET room: complete remission.

We quickly moved forward with the autologous bone marrow transplant. But just as the transplant was underway, I was diagnosed with COVID-19. I had to isolate, unable to be by her side during one of her most critical phases. It broke my heart. But my Head of Department was always there, guiding, ensuring she received the same care and warmth. And she, as always, met the challenge with courage. She completed the transplant. She recovered. She was cured.

And then came the day she was discharged. She handed us something I will never forget - a handmade sketch of every single person who had cared for her in the transplant unit. Every nurse, every doctor, and the technician. She had drawn me too, masked and distant, but there in spirit. It was her way of saying thank you. But really, it was we who owed her thanks.

Today, five years later, she’s working at a bank. She talks about travelling the world. She still stays in touch sometimes, always with that same calm, grounded strength. Her story continues to inspire not just her fellow patients but all of us as doctors. She reminds us why we do what we do - why sometimes, one more try is worth everything. She was, and always will be, the sketch of a brave heart - drawn not in ink, but in faith, hope, and healing.