Ken’s appointment was on October 6, 2002, with Dr. Alvaro Valle (pronounced Val-yay). I have to admit that I was a little apprehensive when I learned he was of foreign descent. Not because I had anything against people who weren’t born in the USA, but I was afraid that there might be a language problem. I only worried about that because I remember when I was in labor with Jesse, the first anesthesiologist they sent was Indian and I could not understand anything he said. Each time he spoke to me, I had to ask him to repeat it and he was getting mad at me because I couldn’t understand him. Now, we were going to be fighting for Ken’s life–I wanted to make sure we would be able to understand each other.
The waiting room at the surgeon’s office was one of the fanciest I have ever seen. You could tell it had been professionally decorated. It was nice to have such a comfortable place to wait. Dr. Valle’s nurse, Debbie, called us in and showed us to an exam room. I asked her if the results of Ken’s biopsies had come back yet. "Yes", she said, and tried to give me a warm smile, but I could see sadness in her eyes.
Dr. Valle walked in and all my fears regarding the language barrier melted away. He did have a very thick accent (he was from Honduras or Nicaragua, but for the life of me, I can’t remember which), but he spoke slowly and deliberately, pausing from time to time to make sure we understood what he said. He wasn’t very tall, but he had the kindest eyes. If anyone in the Chattanooga area ever needs a good surgical oncologist, Dr. Valle is the best, hands down.
Okay, so Dr. Valle comes in and Debbie is right behind him. She picks up a box of Kleenex, first thing. Dr. Valle sits down, looks at me, not Ken, and says, "Do you two have children?" If I ever had any doubt about Ken’s diagnosis, that question wiped it out completely. I KNEW he was about to give us horrible news. And he did.
Ken had CANCER! I knew the doctor was going to say that, but I was still stunned. It was hard to breathe. Debbie handed me the Kleenex and Dr. Valle continued. He said Ken had a very rare form of gastric (stomach) cancer called Linitis Plastica. It was a rapidly-growing, diffuse cancer. Ken’s entire stomach lining, inside and out, was involved. The cancer had basically caused Ken’s stomach to turn into a "leather pouch" that would not move and stretch the way a normal stomach should. That was why Ken couldn’t hold any food down. Because the cancer was so diffuse (spread out), Dr. Valle didn’t think surgery, other than to place a feeding tube, would be a good option. Linitis Plastica didn’t manifest itself as a self-contained, localized tumor. Rather, it had many "finger-like" tumors reaching across and through the entire stomach lining.
Dr. Valle said that they would be scheduling the surgery to place the feeding tube immediately because Ken would not be able to eat enough to sustain his weight. He said if Ken felt like eating anything, to let him try, but that meat and dairy products would probably be tough for him to digest. Then Dr. Valle looked at us with those kind, dark eyes, and said, "You need to go home and get Ken’s affairs in order–today." I felt like someone had dropped a brick on my head. I know I keep using the word "stunned", but it is the only word that describes the way I felt on that horrible October day.
Debbie came back in with the order for surgery. Dr. Valle shook both of our hands and told us to try and get some rest (yeah, right!). We had valet-parked our car, so we headed down to the front desk. They drove our car around and I asked how much I owed. He told me nothing. I guess I learned a valuable lesson that day–if your face is blotched from crying and you still have tears pouring down your face, you get valet parking for free. We got in the car and headed for home. I looked over at Ken and said, "How in the world will we ever tell our babies?" He just shook his head.
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