A Day in the Life of a Paediatric Oncology Pharmacist in Benghazi, Libya
By Abdelgader Abdelhamid
Some mornings stick with you. Like the day little Fatima came back after her induction treatment for acute lymphoblastic leukemia. She’s only 7, but she walked in holding her mom’s hand, then suddenly let go and ran straight to me with this crumpled drawing. It was me—big smile, holding what looked like a glowing bottle. “This is you,” she said quietly, “you make the bad stuff go away so I can play football again.” Her mom just stood there, eyes full, and said, “We were so scared… but you explained everything, step by step. You gave us hope when we had none.”. That’s why I keep going. I’m Abdelgader Abdelhamid, working in the Department of Oncology and Hematology at Pediatric Hospital Benghazi. I’ve got my Postgraduate Diploma in Clinical Pharmacy, and right now I’m pushing hard to become a Libyan Board of Clinical Pharmacy (LBCP) certified specialist.
In our unit, we mostly see kids with blood cancers—leukemias, lymphomas—these are the big ones here in Libya for children. It’s rewarding, but honestly, it’s tough too. Supplies aren’t always steady, costs hit families hard, and sometimes we have to get really creative to keep treatments on track. My day usually kicks off around 8:00 am. I get in, sign the book, grab a quick coffee if I’m lucky, and check the list: who’s coming for chemo today, any new kids admitted overnight, follow ups, emergencies. I look at the latest labs—blood counts, kidneys, liver—to see if doses need tweaking or if someone needs extra supportive meds. A lot of mornings we do rounds together: me, the pediatric oncologists, hematologists, nurses, maybe a psychologist if things are really heavy. We talk through the tricky cases—high-risk leukemia, relapsed stuff—and make sure everyone’s on the same page. Around 9:00, I suit up: gown, double gloves, mask, hair cover—the full gear. Into the prep area to mix the chemo. Kids’ doses are tiny and exact; everything’s weight-based, and I double-check (triple-check, really) with whoever’s around. We use the biological safety cabinet or cleanroom, following all the rules to keep it sterile and safe. In Libya, some of the fancier drugs or even basics can be late arriving or too expensive because of imports and everything else going on. So I talk a lot with the doctors—maybe switch to what we have, or find a workaround through programs if possible. No kid misses a dose if we can help it.
The part I love most? Talking to the families. We have a little space for it. Kids are scared of needles, weird tastes, losing hair. Parents are terrified about infections or what’s next. I sit down, use simple words, sometimes draw pictures for the little ones: “This medicine fights the bad cells, but it might make you feel sick to your tummy—here’s what we do about that.” I tell them to keep hydrated, eat what they can, watch for fever. For families coming from far away or struggling with money, I try to help with tips on sticking to the plan and point them to any support we have. Seeing a scared mom relax a bit, or a kid say “Okay, I get it now,” makes the whole day worth it. Later in the day, I check stock: cytotoxics, anti-nausea meds, antibiotics, growth factors. Make sure hazardous waste is handled right. I write everything down carefully documentation is key. Sometimes I show students or new staff how to do safe mixing or watch for side effects. A few days I follow up on kids on oral meds at home or adjust things for common problems like fever and low counts. It’s not easy. You see kids fighting so hard—some win, some… we lose them. Shortages make you angry, delays hurt. But then you get those wins: a scan looks better, a family says thank you from the heart, or a little one like Fatima hands you a drawing. Those moments remind me this isn’t just work; it’s being there for them when they need it most. I usually head out around 4:00 pm, tired to my bones but feeling good inside. In Libya, pediatric oncology is still growing, and I’m proud to be part of it. Sharing this with ISOPP friends around the world means a lot—we all learn from each other. We have our struggles, but the love for these kids keeps us going, pushing for better every day. Thanks for letting me share a piece of what life looks like here in Benghazi.