Common Stones

Chapter 2 My Story ~ Making the Choice “I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness for it shows me the stars.” ~Og Mandino

I was slowly crumbling, falling apart on the hospital’s cold bathroom floor, struggling to regain my composure to discuss the test results. My soon-to-be father-in-law, one of the hospital’s surgeons, met my sister and me in the lobby, graciously offering to walk us through what we were viewing on the glowing MRI image. My family and I had just barely made it home from a treacherous vacation in the Dominican Republic—and believe me, I never thought I’d place the words “vacation,” “Dominican Republic,” and “treacherous” together in the same sentence. However, after witnessing Dad’s belligerent, out-of-character outbursts, in addition to his chronic headaches and near-falls to the ground, treacherous it was. Something was very wrong, and whatever that was, it wasn’t an ordinary illness. And so we were back in Michigan, hearing the details behind our dreaded nightmare. A shotgun sounded, signaling the start to an unforeseen race, as we desperately struggled to make out the finish line.

Allow Me to Introduce You From June 1968 to April 1970, my father, Dr. Daniel C. Gramzow, served as an SP5 Sergeant Fifth Class in Preventive Medicine during the Vietnam War. After he returned to the States, he married my mother, raised four daughters, and continued his career as a chiropractor in Mt. Clemens, Michigan. He was hard-working, honest, forgiving, and his heart was as big as they come. His lovable qualities and talents were endless, including his random whistling bouts, his mouth-watering pasta with prosciutto and asparagus, and his tendency to hide Oreos in a bowl of broken graham crackers with the hope of avoiding an “eating healthy” lecture from one of his girls. Dad’s positive influence was always within reach. My sisters and I would pile in our van after an event, eager to discuss what had taken place. “Did you see that? I can’t believe he did that!” one of us would spout.

As the banter continued, Dad drove silently. He wouldn’t utter a word, and yet, by not engaging in the conversation, he was sending the loudest message possible: What is the point of this conversation? Is it positive? No? Then let’s talk about something else. Dad fully invested himself in his office—mind and body—five long days each week. From time to time, a patient would humbly admit that he could no longer afford Dad’s care. Upon due-diligent consideration, Dad would do his best to provide care for the person in need, despite the appropriate payment plan. Unexpected kindness—a true gift. Not to mention, yet another lesson Dad’s vigilant daughters absorbed like sponges.

That agonizing day, January 10, 2007, my father was diagnosed with brain cancer—Glioblastoma Multiforme (GBM)—classified by the National Brain Tumor Society as the “deadliest of malignant primary brain tumors in adults.” My sister and I stared in disbelief at the MRI, revealing the detestable mass overtaking a quarter of our father’s brain, quickly spreading to the remaining quadrants. It’s horrifically surreal, and yet astonishing how much life can change in twenty-four hours. Even in a week. Just two weeks earlier we were celebrating Dad’s birthday on Christmas Day. Now we were struggling to get him to his next one.

Revelations At that stage in my life, most of my time was devoted to research. It was not only innate within me, but the core of my educational studies. I investigated everything, wanting to know the “why” behind any unknown, or at least the variables that played a role in supporting or opposing a concept. I needed to determine what had caused my dad’s illness. What could have possibly played a part in such an extreme and sudden diagnosis besides the typical statistical odds of acquiring cancer? This didn’t appear to be just any cancer. A missing puzzle piece had to exist. Knowing wouldn’t necessarily change Dad’s prognosis, but when you’re up against an elusive ghost, anything tangible can provide even the slightest bit of clarity as to what you’re fighting and why. Research and statistics are not the end-all be-all. However, that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t arm ourselves with knowledge at every opportunity. I sat on the floor in the living room of my parents’ house, trusty laptop in hand, digging into any and all factors within Dad’s life that could have imprinted his road, leading him to this location. I shouted possibilities to my mom in the kitchen, “Maybe it was this … maybe it was that .... Here are the odds that this may have played a part ….” Mom inched around the corner, peering at me through the entryway. With slight hesitation, she asked, “Alicia, have you ever heard of Agent Orange?” I was about to be enlightened. The alleged assumption exists that my father’s malignancy was a direct result of exposure to Agent Orange, a defoliant (containing small amounts of dioxin) that the U.S. armed forces used for herbicidal warfare during the Vietnam War . My mind and heart raced. “Mom … you have got to be kidding me.” Dad had known; he had known that this could one day be in his deck of cards.

You can imagine the tidal wave of emotions that ensued. To watch Dad’s endless symptoms as the tumor progressed was absolutely agonizing: excruciating headaches, loss of balance, and eventually the use of his limbs and speech. Not to mention behavioral anomalies emerging like a curve ball when we least expected it. The result of putting pressure on particular locations within the brain is astounding and yet haunting. My father, the man I’d known all my life, occasionally possessed the characteristics of a complete stranger.