There is no medicine like hope, no incentive so great, and no tonic so powerful as expectation of something better tomorrow

– Orison Marden

He was encased. A tiny body in a large box and as I reached my hand through the opening I remembered the instructions from his NICU nurse. Don’t rub! His skin is too sensitive, just lay your hand upon him. My fingers hovered over his small frame as I tried in vain to talk myself into touching him. Such an instinctive mothering act – to caress your baby – to offer him comfort, but what if I did it wrong? What if I hurt him? My body had already betrayed both of us! The guilt nawed away at my resolve.

At 33 weeks pregnant with my first child I awoke to a gush that soaked the overnight pad I was wearing. My water had broken (Preterm premature rupture of membranes) and no amount of bed rest was going to help me. Two days after the initial gush the doctors decided to induce.

Now here I was less than 12 hours after birth, staring at my newborn son and wondering if a touch might be his undoing. Wait, I thought, did I wash my hands? Yes…like three times since entering the NICU. Get a grip, Carrie! I took a deep breath and gently touched his head. He was soft and warm and I was completely enthralled.

I wondered if he might have a future afterall. His body was small but strong. His life was young but full of promise. I began to feel a swelling in my breast, a spark that had been drowned in worry and overwhelming fears since this journey had begun, reignited. I might get to bring him home. I might just leave this tiny clausterphobic NICU. I was still uncertain but there was no denying that at last I felt what I thought had been lost.




I recieved this blog relay from Jen over at and now I have the great pleasure of passing this Hope Baton on.

Pish at

Tara at

Kimberley at

DS at

Robbie at

The rules are merely to write about hope and then pass the baton on! Happy scribbling!