Karen Barbour Character Analysis

I look at the three of them and recall a bewildering emotion that I recognized for the first time back when Nic was born. Along with the joy of parenthood, with every child comes a piercing vulnerability. It is at once sublime and terrifying.

He says that one of the most difficult things about having a child addicted to drugs is that we cannot control it. We cannot save Nic. “You can support his recovery but you can’t do it for him,” he says. “We try to save them. Parents try. It’s what parents do.”

He tells us Al-Anon’s Three Cs: “You didn’t cause it, you can’t control it, you can’t cure it.”

It’s a tricky illness. Yes, people do have choices about what to do about it. It’s the same with an illness like diabetes. A diabetic can choose to monitor his insulin levels and take his medication; an addict can choose to treat his disease through recovery. In both cases, if they don’t treat their illnesses, they worsen and the person can die.

“I felt the same way about my son until I realized that he couldn’t get to school or work or a therapy appointment but he could get to pawn shops, get to his dealers, get whatever drug he wanted, get alcohol, break into houses, get needles—whatever was required. […] I felt so sorry for him, thinking, He’s depressed. He’s fragile. He’s incapable. Of course I should pay his bill if he winds up in the hospital. Of course I should pay his rent or he’ll be on the streets. So for about a year I paid for a comfortable place for him to get high.”

I have learned that I am all but irrelevant to Nic’s survival. It took my near death, however, to comprehend that his fate—and Jasper’s and Daisy’s—is separate from mine. I can try to protect my children, to help and guide them, and I can love them, but I cannot save them. Nic, Jasper, and Daisy will live, and someday they will die, with or without me.

The phone, when it rings, brings on the same state of panic. I am always worried that there is news of another crisis. Or it’s Nic, and I don’t know if he will be sane or high. Or it won’t be him, and I’ll be disappointed. My body tenses up. Oftentimes during meals or when we’re hanging around in the evening, I let the phone ring until the answering service picks it up, because I don’t want to deal with whatever might be coming. I think that everyone feels tension.

I look at the three of them and recall a bewildering emotion that I recognized for the first time back when Nic was born. Along with the joy of parenthood, with every child comes a piercing vulnerability. It is at once sublime and terrifying.

He says that one of the most difficult things about having a child addicted to drugs is that we cannot control it. We cannot save Nic. “You can support his recovery but you can’t do it for him,” he says. “We try to save them. Parents try. It’s what parents do.”

He tells us Al-Anon’s Three Cs: “You didn’t cause it, you can’t control it, you can’t cure it.”

It’s a tricky illness. Yes, people do have choices about what to do about it. It’s the same with an illness like diabetes. A diabetic can choose to monitor his insulin levels and take his medication; an addict can choose to treat his disease through recovery. In both cases, if they don’t treat their illnesses, they worsen and the person can die.

“I felt the same way about my son until I realized that he couldn’t get to school or work or a therapy appointment but he could get to pawn shops, get to his dealers, get whatever drug he wanted, get alcohol, break into houses, get needles—whatever was required. […] I felt so sorry for him, thinking, He’s depressed. He’s fragile. He’s incapable. Of course I should pay his bill if he winds up in the hospital. Of course I should pay his rent or he’ll be on the streets. So for about a year I paid for a comfortable place for him to get high.”

I have learned that I am all but irrelevant to Nic’s survival. It took my near death, however, to comprehend that his fate—and Jasper’s and Daisy’s—is separate from mine. I can try to protect my children, to help and guide them, and I can love them, but I cannot save them. Nic, Jasper, and Daisy will live, and someday they will die, with or without me.

The phone, when it rings, brings on the same state of panic. I am always worried that there is news of another crisis. Or it’s Nic, and I don’t know if he will be sane or high. Or it won’t be him, and I’ll be disappointed. My body tenses up. Oftentimes during meals or when we’re hanging around in the evening, I let the phone ring until the answering service picks it up, because I don’t want to deal with whatever might be coming. I think that everyone feels tension.