VALERIE

I received a call from an R.N. one day. Her name was Jane Blair (all names are fictional) and she attended my church. It was a referral; something that happened occasionally, though not as often as direct calls from prospective clients. Jane volunteered for an anti-abortion counseling center in a nearby town, and Valerie had contacted her. She was embarrassed, she was enrolled in a private college, and she wasn’t willing to show her face at the public counseling center, though she needed help badly, and she needed it now.

Jane continued. Would I be willing to take her on? Valerie could donate part of my costs, and Ms. Blair would be glad to supplement the remaining amount. I quickly agreed. I had rarely counseled a pregnant woman who was considering abortion. Before the R.N. hung up, she added, “Oh, by the way, (and this is important) Valerie is HIV Positive.” Well now, that did cast a whole new light on the subject… for some, but not for me. I had counseled a couple of younger people in the past, who had contracted the virus. I made Jane aware that this variable wouldn’t make any difference, at all.

I received a call from Valerie later that afternoon. She seemed nervous, and stuttered a couple times during our conversation, though her innocence and vivaciousness were infectuous, (no pun intended.) Before our conversation ended, I assured Valerie that I was “the most empathetic and unbiased counselor in this universe or any other,” a phrase designed to both reassure my prospective client, and lighten her mood. I heard Valerie chuckle in the background, and I was glad I made her laugh. We decided on a day and time to meet, and I told her I looked forward to seeing her.

The day dawned cloudless and bright, and I ran off a few intake forms, and put them on my clipboard. Valerie had an early appointment, and I found myself standing in my “usual place of honor,” just inside the front lobby doors, before 9AM. I heard the secretary’s clock chime its fake Big Ben nine bells… and waited. I began to think that my new client would find herself on the proverbial “no show list,” as perhaps a third of my new clients did. For the life of me, I never understood why people scheduled an appointment, and then failed to call or show. I remember the one time in my life I scheduled an appointment with a medical doctor, and decided I really had better things to do. I received his bill in the mail. Well now, this was a pastoral counseling center, and I was too sensitive about how the public regarded us to do that. (I was oh so tempted to institute this policy, though I never did.) This issue was always on the top five of my “Pet Peeve List,” however, just under Pedophiles and “Tail Gaters.” Obviously, I felt strongly about the tendency of some people to take advantage of my good graces. Thankfully, I lived close to the church.

Fifteen minutes came and went, and just as I walked out the front door to leave, and headed towards my nearby vehicle, a car pulled into the parking lot. I stopped in my tracks, and waited to see if this was my client. The old Altima pulled in next to my car, and a young lady hurriedly stepped out. There was little doubt that this was Valerie. She looked rattled, cast a glance at me and leaned her head to one side, as if to say, “Golly, Gee Whiz, I’m so sorry I’m late.” Walking quickly up to me, and in mid-stride she said, “You must be Dr. McDonald. I’m very sorry. I got caught by a train.” Honestly, I had heard this one before. As Valerie spoke, a train whistle sounded in the distance, and we smiled at the same time.

Valerie looked like she needed a hug, and while it was the last thing I would normally do with a new client, especially considering ours was a church agency, she reached out to me. The young lady wasn’t interested in a perfunctionary handshake. As a result, I reciprocated, and gave her a warm, but quick hug. (I silently mused that many people who had contracted HIV seemed hesitant to display affection with friends and family, much less with strangers.) Valerie was an exception to the rule. As it turned out, she was an exception to most every rule. I could sense that she was silently thrilled that I didn’t hesitate to touch her. I think this precious lady might have turned on her heel, and walked back to her vehicle had I exhibited a stand-offish attitude towards her. At the same time, I was rather surprised she was so unreserved considering the public’s mindset towards this mysterious and deadly disease.

As I put my key in the lock, and opened the door for her, I patted Valerie on the back, and formerly introduced myself with, “Yes, indeed. I’m Dr. McDonald. (But you can call me Bill.) You’ve come to the right place, Valerie. (And don’t worry about the train. It happens to many of my clients.”) This seemed to put her at ease.

I led the way up the winding staircase, an inclined trail that I was all too used to climbing. And since our church carpet was a mustard yellow, I often referred to it as “The Yellow Brick Road.” I led the way, and heard myself referring to it that way again. Valerie had a ready smile, and I could tell she enjoyed my “square humor” a great deal. I liked to think she thought, “Hey, I do believe I can deal with this fellow. He’s a straight shooter.” (My words, not likely hers.)

I ushered Valerie into my office, and invited her to sit on the sofa. As she sat down, I noticed she glanced at my décor. I had recently placed a wallpaper border around the perimeter of my ceiling. My co-counselor had selected it. It was a modest representation of Da Vinci’s “God and Adam.” The image was faithful in every detail, except one. (As I mentioned… It was modest.)

Valerie seemed to smile slightly, again. My wife has often mused that she wouldn’t have selected that particular border, but I always defended it. I just plain liked it. Apparently, we would just have to agree to disagree on that issue. Valerie was thin, but about my height and she had blue eyes and blond hair. If I had not known she was HIV Positive, it would not have been apparent. If I had not known she was pregnant, this also would have not been readily apparent, at this stage in the embryo’s gestation.

I decided to wait ‘til the end of the first session to deal with the preliminary forms, an omission Valerie seemed to recognize and appreciate. As a result, I began with, “Valerie, I think the best thing we can do today is hold off on your family history; at least ‘til next time. I generally begin with ‘please tell me all about your parents and your upbringing… beginning at conception,’” (momentarily forgetting the nature of my client’s issue.) Well, rather than respond in abject shock, something about my entre caught Valerie off guard, and she began to laugh aloud. And I laughed with her. I think it was comforting to her that, even in the face of her condition, her counselor was able to loosen up, and give her the opportunity… to laugh; a trait that is highly under-rated among many counseling professionals.

After this, Valerie grew quiet, and pensive for a moment, and then asked, “Uh, where do you want me to begin?” Having worked with literally thousands of clients, my response came easily, “Well, Valerie, let’s deal with what you regard as your most sensitive issues today. Share with me exactly why you’re here, and how you want me to help you.”

My client’s eyes displayed more understanding now, and she seemed to consider how best to proceed.

“Dr. Bill, (should I call you that?”) And I nodded affirmatively. “I contacted Ms. Blair, she is a neighbor of mine, and I inquired whether she knew a pastoral counselor I could speak to about my ‘double trouble.’ I squelched an involuntary smile when she used this phrase. It brought to mind a scene from the second Karate Kid movie in which Daniel tells an oriental ruffian, “Hey man, I’m not looking for trouble,” to which the bully replies, “Maybe twouble looking for you!”

Knowing what I already knew about Valerie’s circumstances, I could only mentally agree with her persuasion that this was “double trouble.”

She continued. “I’m currently enrolled at Sandover University, though I haven’t been attending classes in the past couple weeks. Well, you know how conservative that school is, and God knows I grew up with Christian morals, and was glad to have the opportunity to move a thousand miles from home, and attend the university I had always hoped to attend. But everything has fallen apart for me now, and I think it will never be the same again.”

Based on her preliminary remarks, and what the nurse had told me, I could tell this was going to be a good story, (if a tragedy such as this one could include that adjective.)

“I met this guy at Sandover during my first year, and he seemed like the kind of guy I could spend the rest of my life with. We began to spend a lot of time together, and my grades began to suffer. Robert seemed to be a gentleman and he told me he’d never had a sexual relationship. As a matter of fact, I never had either… up until that point anyway. The amount of time we spent together caused us to be increasingly frustrated, and I guess it was just a matter of time. He came up with the idea and I’m sorry to say, I went along with it. Robert made up an excuse that his Uncle had died and he had to drive back home on Friday night. I came up with an equally plausible plan, and told my Resident Advisor that my Aunt had invited me to spend the weekend with her. Robert and I signed out Friday afternoon, and we drove separately to a motel a hundred miles off campus. We continued to make up excuses, and sign out as often as we felt we could get away with it; which averaged once every three or four weeks. Then the day came when I missed my Monthly, and of course I was mortified. I picked up one of those home pregnancy tests, and I tested positive. When I told Robert, well, he became very defensive, and told me he had to go, that he had an important test the next day. The next time I saw him, he put me off, and said he had to meet a professor about his grades. Every time I tried to talk with him he changed the subject, or said he was in a hurry. A couple weeks later Robert rang my cell phone and suggested I get an abortion. Even now I haven’t told my parents, but I was adamant with him that there was no way I was going to have an abortion. He was extremely angry, and almost pleaded with me to find a clinic that would do it. Well, I confided to my roomie that I was pregnant, and that my boyfriend wanted me to terminate the pregnancy. Of course, being the fine Christian girl she is, she was shocked. Julie is a gem. Even considering her uncompromising values, she was objective enough to talk to me about it. She suggested I do something that hadn’t occurred to me; that I have all the standard STD testing. This seemed logical to me, and I scheduled an appointment with the county health department. The waiting period was the hardest thing I’d ever done. I received a follow up call from the R.N. and received the worst news in my life. I had contracted HIV. The test results were definite. Of course I realized that the only possible carrier was Robert; since he was the only guy I’d ever been with. Needless to say, he lied about my being his first intimate relationship. Not long after I discovered I was pregnant and HIV Positive, Robert dropped out of school and went back to South Carolina. Of course I came down big time on him about my lab results, and he admitted he had lied ‘cause he figured ‘a nice girl’ like me wouldn’t date him if he told the truth. Robert denied knowing he was a carrier of the disease, and the way his face turned pale, and his hands trembled, I have to think that much of his story was the truth. So, he’s gone now, left me high and dry, and I don’t have a clue what I should do.”

It was referrals like this that I both appreciated and approached with great trepidation. But I had already developed a fine professional rapport with Valerie, and I had told Ms. Blair that I would do my best to help her. However, the definition of “helping her” was open to debate, and I had no idea where all this was going.

I happened to be an adjunct faculty member at Sandover U., but I counted client confidentiality more sacred than any allegiance I owned to a university where I earned all of $4,500 per semester. It occurred to me to tell Valerie, at this interesting juncture, that I was employed by Sandover, but that client privilege outranked my duty to report her to the Dean of the College of Communications. Having had this bombshell dropped on her, my young client seemed extremely nervous, and I could sense she wasn’t quite convinced that I would keep her secret. At this point, I took Valerie’s hand, looked her directly in the eye, and said, “Now listen, Valerie. You have my solemn word. I will never divulge your situation to the university, or anyone else, for that matter.” This ad-lib ceremony seemed to ease her mind, and in no time, the tension in the room had abated.

I spoke. “Okay, Valerie. Let’s see where we find ourselves. I promise you that I won’t lay any pat solutions on you. I recognize how complicated this is. But to be fair to you, I am pro-life. I hate abortion. But this is a totally different scenario.”

Valerie hadn’t told anyone at the university, other than her roommate, and she wasn’t yet “showing,” so she had a place to stay, and food to eat for the moment. She had told me that her parents were “old school,” and that it was possible when they found out, they wouldn’t allow her to return home. Having thought about it, I encouraged Valerie to hold off telling her parents, until we had an opportunity to spend some time working through what I had long since called the “presenting issues.”

I asked Valerie to imagine the embryo in her womb; how it looked and exactly where it was in her body at that time. She automatically closed her eyes, and a winsome smile appeared on her face. Afterwards, I asked her what she had been taught about conception and when life could properly be called life, “but better yet, what do you personally believe in this regard?” Valerie rattled off the standard Christian dogma, but her words seemed a bit too rehearsed, and I suggested she do some research, independent of my input. While I am convinced that life begins at conception, I adamantly believe I cannot possibly choose for my clients.

“Valerie, I’d like you to do some reading this week from books, the internet and other resources, as well as scripture. Check out what various professionals have said about conception and when it is life begins. Bounce that off what God’s Word tells us about when life begins. We’ll talk about your findings next time.”

I couldn’t think of a better place to begin. Valerie needed to formulate her own mindset on the subject. I felt justifiably biased, I must admit, since I had long since decided what I believed about the issue which had long since led to intense disagreements between father and daughter, mother and son, brother and sister in America, and I was convinced that Valerie would come to terms with what I regarded as the truth. But she had to do THIS herself.

When I met with this precious young lady, the next week, she seemed to have the faintest evidence of a belly that had not been there, heretofore. Valerie was assuming a glow that one only sees on the face of an expectant mother. We spent some time on the subject I assigned her the week before, and her part of the dialogue this week seemed so much more informed, and her persuasion of when life begins seemed measured and unrehearsed. I asked Valerie what she would be inclined to do if she were simply pregnant out of wedlock, and not also HIV Positive. She responded with, “Well, I’m ashamed that I compromised my values, and betrayed my parents, and the promise ring they gave me was nothing but a lie. But I have no doubt that I would go through with the pregnancy, and perhaps I would put the baby up for adoption.”

All this was hypothetical so far, as Valerie had not reached the time and place where a choice was inevitable, and absolutely had to be made. I reminded her of this fact. While she nodded her head, I was beginning to think her decision was beginning to take on reality, and I assumed she would keep the baby. But my assumptions had proved incorrect many times, as I counseled clients of with a myriad of issues.

I considered it imperative that Valerie have the latest information as she attempted to reach a conclusion about the fate of her unborn child. While I was pro-life, but my mindset allowed the slightest sway in terms of the life of the mother; (a concept that has been terribly abused in terms of third trimester abortions and the previously legalized killing of babies just prior to their birth. ) I also concluded that deformities in the embryo which would contribute to life-long medical problems might be a justifiable reason for abortion.

I made Valerie aware of a particular medication that, when given to the mother, insured a higher likelihood that the baby would be born HIV Negative and remain negative throughout their lifetimes. She had been under the impression that it was a foregone conclusion that her baby would have the same condition as hers. She received this news with a bit of shock, and much gladness, it seemed to me. I encouraged her to speak to her pre-natal doctor about this medication. She informed me that she hadn’t yet visited a doctor, but had self-administered three over the counter pregnancy tests, and they all confirmed her pregnancy. Valerie was aware of her eligibility for Medicaid and the use of county health facilities, and I encouraged her to apply for both. This she did the following week.

Being the “Master of Pat Phrases,” I have one for research and dispersal of information. I often tell clients that “Information is salvation (with a little s,) since information saves us from a multitude of problems, and allows us to make informed decisions. I was grateful I was able to share this particular bit of information with Valerie, but if she chose to keep her baby, there was still no guarantee he or she would be born HIV Negative.

The next week, Valerie made me aware that she and Robert were still in contact, and that he was pressuring her to get an abortion. He even made a thinly-veiled threat to tell both her parents, and university officials about her pregnancy. I countered that her parents and the university would know soon enough anyway, so Robert really didn’t have much “ammunition in his ammo pouches.” This seemed to encourage her. Somehow, as intelligent as I knew Valerie was, her common sense seemed to be a bit shallow, at times.

I received a call the following week; a couple days prior to Valerie’s session. She made me aware she had applied for pre-natal benefits, and had reached that most crucial decision she might ever make. “Well then, what is your decision?” I asked. She responded that, “Oh no, you won’t get it out of me that easily. I’ll tell you when we meet again.” I was relatively sure what her choice would be, but even so, I didn’t take it for granted, and the next two days were a bit anxious for me. I cared equally for the lives of Valerie and her child.

Of course, I had already encouraged Valerie to explore her options for treatment of the dread disease. The early months after her diagnosis were crucial, and she had already consulted a doctor in this regard, and he laid out a plan of treatment which involved a “cocktail” of medications. One notable personality named Magic Johnson has experienced great success in terms of maintaining his vitality and personal health, though he had carried the virus for years and years.

Valerie had a bright smile on her face as she met me in the lobby that day, and as we walked together up the “Yellow Brick Road.” As she sat on the couch, she said, “Okay, Dr. Bill, here’s the deal…,” then she paused, and waited for me to say, “This ‘ain’t’ fair, Valerie. Tell me. Tell me now!” Well, I can’t say I sounded all that professional, but this momentary wait was killing me. She brimmed with joy, as she finally said, “I’m going to keep my baby. I just can’t murder my own flesh and blood. Whether he is born HIV Positive or Negative, I have to at least give him a chance to live.”

It was then that Valerie told me something that, no doubt, influenced her decision to keep the baby. “Dr. Bill, there’s something I never told you. I didn’t want you to use this information against me. I so much wanted you to be as neutral, as possible. My mother…. almost aborted me. She told me this a couple years ago. It was before my Dad and she married. They had a similar situation, and Mama was pregnant out of wedlock.

The difference is my Dad didn’t try to talk her out of keeping the baby, well me. Her parents, my grandparents, pressured them some, and they considered doing it, but finally made a decision that allowed me to live. How could I kill my own child when my parents faced the same situation, and gave me an opportunity to live? As much as I thought about it, as close as I came to doing it, I just couldn’t.”

Valerie’s counseling process was considered short-term counseling, as was the therapeutic intervention I offered to all my clients. It was designed to last 8-10 weeks, though I’d met with a few clients for as long as a year, and others came in sporadically over the course of several years. In the scheme of things, our sessions were a bit different than those I usually conducted, as other than providing her information, (which at times I asked her to write down in the notebook all my clients kept) I allowed Valerie to bring those issues to the process which she considered most pertinent any particular week. This sort of intervention seemed to work out well in the case of clients who found themselves “in the midst of a muddle.”

After three months had elapsed, and Valerie had told both her parents and Sandover U. about her pregnancy, we both concurred that she’d done enough in the context of counseling. By this time, Valerie had been dismissed from Sandover, and an off-campus girlfriend was allowing her to room with her for a few weeks. She told me she’d remain in touch, as she had opportunity, but the next few months seemed very uncertain. She would be returning home in a couple of weeks. Her parents had agreed to take her in. They had been verbally demonstrative about her pregnancy, until she told them about her diagnosis a few days after the first revelation. Her mother paused, the phone was “dead air” for a moment, and then her mother began to sob, and Valerie finally hung up the phone since her mom seemed unable to continue. Her father called her later that evening, and it was obvious he had also been crying. It was at this point that her parents’ demeanor changed altogether. They couldn’t do enough for her. They couldn’t love or care enough for her.

“Come home, Valerie. Please come home. We’ll beat this thing together. We can help you make a decision about keeping the baby, or giving him up for adoption.”

Before my young client went home, my wife and I took the opportunity to buy her dinner at a nearby steakhouse. (As I previously inferred in this volume, I don’t conduct my therapeutic intervention and relationship as clinical counselors were prone to do.) Valerie was in the second trimester by this time, and her swollen belly seemed to contradict her thin frame. As I said goodbye to her that day, (and as I write these words, I can still sense the emotions of that moment) she wrapped her arms around me, and held on the longest time. I admit, I was a bit embarrassed at this development; right here in front of God, my wife, and everyone. But I wasn’t prone to deprive Valerie of her rightful expression of joy and the closure recent weeks had accomplished. She was blessed… and she knew it. I was blessed to have had the opportunity to intervene in the life of this precious young woman. I whispered a couple sentences in her ear, (and what I said that day, my readers, is none of your business) and kissed her on the forehead.

I never saw or heard from Valerie again. I can’t really account for that. I have never regretted having had the privilege of intervening in her life. I had little doubt that, as long as God gave her breath, she would make a difference in lives and live out her own life the best she could, under the circumstances. But as the years sifted into the proverbial hourglass of time, I thought about Valerie several times a month. I might as well have forgotten my own mother or sister.

One Spring day, it was perhaps seven years after I finished my work with Valerie, I was at a local garden center buying some perennials. I ran into Ms. Blair, the R.N., who had referred Valerie to the counseling center. We hadn’t seen one another for quite some time, as she and her husband had decided to attend church in a nearby city, and I had lost touch. It was providential that we met that day.

Ms. Blair saw me first, and hurried up to me. Rather than wearing the common expression which accompanies a greeting, she looked pensive, as if dreading the news she was about to divulge. “Bill, how are you and your wife?” I responded that I was quite well, “thank you.” What she told me next shocked me to the depths of my very soul. “I have news from Valerie. Well, not from Valerie exactly,.. but of Valerie. I received a call from her sister a couple months ago. She and her parents had moved to South Florida. She named her son, Christopher. He was born HIV Negative,… and has remained negative.” When she said this, something inside of me smiled. I couldn’t have been happier had Michael Anthony (of classic TV fame) walked up, and told me he had an envelope for me with a million dollars in it. Her story continued.

“It seems Valerie met a nice guy, a Christian man, at a singles event at her church. They immediately hit it off. After a short time, she divulged her HIV Positive status to Jim. It shook him up for a short time, but they talked it through, as he knew he loved her, and they continued to see each other. About a year after they met, they married.”

“Jim loved and treated Christopher like his own son, though he had two other children from a previous marriage. Evidently Valerie had very good taste in men, as after a great deal of training, and several promotions, Jim became City Manager for a very large city in South Florida. Bill, I’m sorry to tell you that after a couple years of marriage, Valerie began to develop skin infections, and experienced a bad cough, and she was diagnosed with full-blown AIDS.

In spite of the medication she had been administered for so long, she grew weaker. She died two years ago.

I’m so sorry. I know you cared immensely. Her sister told me Valerie often spoke of your kindness to her, and how grateful she was that you came into her life when you did.”

Well, my readers, I was overwhelmed with grief. I could not have felt more momentary sorrow than if someone had told me my own daughter has died. As I near the completion of this chapter, and recount this portion of my story, tears well in my eyes.

As Ms. Blair finished, her voice broke, “Her family surrounded Valerie, as she lay in the hospice room, and she died peacefully. Her sister told me that just before she passed, she took Jim’s hand, and the hand of her son, and joined them together. Jim recently adopted Christopher, and Chris took his last name. Though the boy has had a hard time, after the death of his mother, he is doing well now. He is healthy and happy.”

I thanked Ms. Blair for providing me her update. I never dreamed when I drove to the garden center that day that I would receive such momentous news. Over the following months I experienced my own private grief, as a result of Valerie’s passing. I would have liked to have spoken to her a few times over the course of those hidden years, at least hidden to me, and I would have liked to have spent a few moments with her on that day she left us.

I have no doubt Valerie is in a better place now, and I can only rejoice that her son is in the care of a good man. And I suppose he must be approaching manhood now. Christopher might well have remained a theory, a figment, a non-entity. But I rejoice that a young man moves, and breathes, and lives today, as a result of a mother’s willingness to spare his life, and this  counselor’s good fortune to intervene in the life of a precious young lady, who deserved a long and prosperous journey, who left us far too early, but who bequeathed something rich and tangible of herself to this world,… the life of her dear son.


By William McDonald, PhD. Musings. Copyright 2010

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