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We were in the tuk-tuk when my four-year-old son screamed blue murder. We pulled over and discovered he had been bitten by something, and my mind immediately leapt to the worst-case scenario. It had to be a dengue-carrying mosquito! We were in a remote part of Cebu Island in the Philippines, far from any major hospitals. It was a Sunday. Why hadn’t I put on more repellant? How had he been bitten through his rashie? Why had I brought my young family here?

My partner, meanwhile, was calm. Back at our homestay, he found a cold drink to use as an ice pack and sat with our son until he settled. When we checked the bite minutes later, there was no redness, no swelling, barely even a mark. Our son, now happily watching TV, could hardly point to which arm it had been on.

Nonetheless, I had the antihistamines ready. I Googled symptoms, warning signs and nearby medical centres. I started mentally mapping an exit plan: maybe we could leave tomorrow, a day earlier than planned, for somewhere more central with better facilities.

For what was supposed to be a relaxing island holiday, worry had unfortunately become a pesky, uninvited visitor. Over the past week, I had worried about stray dogs, ice cubes, street food, traffic and earthquakes. The Philippines sits on several active faultlines, and the cracked roads and semi-collapsed buildings served as constant reminders of the risk (since we visited, there has been another earthquake in the southern Philippines, which has killed at least 61 people and caused widespread damage to buildings and infrastructure).

While I was on high alert, I envied my partner who appeared genuinely switched off and relaxed. My children adapted easily too, jumping into pools before I could even say sunscreen.

By the time we made it back to the central tourist hub and checked into a big family resort for our last two nights, some of that carefree energy had rubbed off. I finally started to unwind.

Then, in the middle of the night, we heard the thump, then a wail and a scream.

We woke to blood on the bed and blood on the floor. My seven-year-old daughter had fallen out of bed. At first, I thought she had a bloody nose, but when my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw the deep gash across her forehead.

My partner and I moved instantly into action.

We assessed the wound and knew immediately she needed medical help. I called the front desk, and within minutes a small team of resort staff arrived to help. A car was arranged.

I packed a bag: passport, money and power banks. I woke her sleeping brother.

We went to three hospitals.

At the first, nurses checked her vitals and examined the cut, but the only doctor available was tied up in emergency surgery for at least two hours, so we were sent elsewhere. At the second hospital, staff cleaned the wound and recommended wound glue for a minor, but they didn’t have any. So we moved again, this time to a much bigger teaching hospital in the CBD.

By then, it was 3am. After repeating the story and filling out yet another round of paperwork, we finally met a doctor who was calm and decisive. She took one look at the cut and ruled out wound glue. Stitches were what we needed – four in the end. She told my daughter to scream and cry as much as she needed to, but it was happening regardless.

My partner held her while I sat outside, rocking her sleeping younger brother. I could hear the fear in her cries. I counted quietly, just as I had taught my daughter to do when the local anaesthetic needle went in.

A few minutes later, my partner emerged, with a thumbs up and a weary smile.

We were discharged with antibiotics, painkillers and a tetanus shot to boot. We got back to the resort at 6am. Later that day, a resort nurse helped us clean her wound, and by midday, most of us had managed a few hours of much-needed sleep.

I joke that I don’t want to travel with the kids again. But looking back, I realise how much I parent with anticipatory fear and how unhelpful that usually is. It doesn’t prevent accidents or emergencies, it only heightens emotions which can make parenting even more exhausting.

When the real emergency happened, I focused on the present, thinking only about the next step, not the next five. Somewhere between the third hospital and sunrise, I wasn’t worried about scars or infections or anything else. I was only thinking about breakfast.

It has been two months since our trip. My daughter’s wound has healed beautifully. She rarely talks about the incident. Instead, she recalls snorkelling with turtles and getting her hair braided.

There will be another trip. I will still pack the medicines and the repellant. I will probably still look up where the hospitals are. But I will also carry a bit more confidence, that when things go wrong, I can cope.

• Lucille Wong is a Melbourne writer