After parking in University's Hospital's dingy car park at the east wing, my dad and I walked towards the lift and am immediately struck by a strong antiseptic smell although I tolerate it much better now.

We took the lift to level 9 and entered into the Paedietric Intensive Care Unit and immediately on our right, lay baby Madeleine. Barely 9 months, bloated with tubes sticking into her body, breathing and pumping antibiotics into her.

As if to acknowledge our presence, she starts moving and crying but her movement is restricted by straps and sobs muffled and drowned out by the constant beeping and buzzing of machines that surround her like permanent robotic doctors.

She's not alone though and her parents labour night after night to sit by their daughter patting her to sleep, applying lotion on her dry skin, singing hymns to her and holding her tiny hand.

Madeleine is suffering from thalessaemia major and due to an unsuccesful bone marrow transplant, her liver is weakening. In spite of this, her spirit and will to live fights on, responding to her parents' labour of love.

I guess in a way, we are like Madeleine. We may not know the next bend in the road or the oncoming pothole we're going to trip on but we have a wonderful God to hold our hand whether we fall or not. I'm just really glad I know that.