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I was halfway around the world on a training exercise in Georgia – the country on the eastern edge of the black sea, not the US state. It was late evening, our work was done for the day, and I had just finished showering in the retrofitted Soviet-era barracks. It had been a good day. After a rough start to the exercise, we were finally getting into the groove of things there. So, I was feeling happy when my wife, Kathryn, called. But the worry in her voice told me this wasn’t going to be a happy call.
Kathryn explained that our two-year-old daughter, Laurel, had been crying all night because her leg hurt and had a new rash on her stomach. So, Kathryn took her to see our family doctor, out of an abundance of caution.
“They told me to pack for a week.” Kathryn explained. “They’re going to call when a room is ready at the Children’s Hospital. We have to go in right away.”
“Wait, what exactly are we talking about here?” I asked, scared and confused.
“Her platelets and hemoglobin are very low… they’re worried it might be… Leukemia” she barely managed to get that last word out.
I told her that she needed to call Red Cross immediately. I encouraged her to stay calm while we learn more. I reassured her that the doctors were just practicing an abundance of caution themselves, and there was no need to panic.
Inside, I panicked.
The rest of the night was a blur. My Commander and First Sergeant helped make arrangements for the first flight home. Several high-ranking officials were awakened in the middle of the night to approve my early departure.
The Georgian Army’s head of security met me at the front gate of the base. He gave my taxi driver some very firm words in a language I didn’t speak. Then, he gave me his direct number in case “anything happened.” The driver proceeded cautiously (which is rare in Georgia), didn’t make eye contact during the trip, and seemed deeply relieved when we arrived at the airport without incident. I tipped generously.
Six frantic hours after Kathryn called, I was researching childhood Leukemia on my phone while waiting to board the first of several flights. I would travel for another 30 hours before seeing my family. Back in the US, Laurel had been admitted to the children’s oncology department and they had confirmed her diagnosis. It was no longer “an abundance of caution.” My two-year-old daughter had Cancer.
I’m writing about this experience three and a half months later. But it still feels like it’s been one long, confusing, and painful effort to get back “home.” I don’t know how long it will take for life to feel normal again, or if it ever will. Maybe I’ll spend the rest of my days feeling how that Georgian taxi-driver must have; painfully aware that any little problem could lead to terrifying consequences. I’ll certainly never escape the knowledge that an “abundance of caution” can become a fight to save my child’s life, and a good day can become a very long nightmare.