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Lately I’ve been watching the A&E series “Intervention,” wherein a person dealing with addiction is profiled throughout the process of confrontation.
Of particular interest to me is the part played before the intervention by the family member closest to the addicted person — the spouse, lover, or parent. It’s both fascinating and horrifying to see the lengths to which they will go to save the addicts from their actions’ natural consequences.
I watched the other night as a man made futile attempts to keep his wife sober before a crucial court date. He enlisted a family friend to police her while he was at work, then later he doled out tiny sips of booze despite her shrill attempts to get more. His quest to keep her from drinking and her quest to keep drinking were equally painful to witness.
He needs to leave her alone, I thought. He needs to step back and let the situation reach its natural conclusion. He cannot stop her.
But he couldn’t seem to stop himself, even when she clearly didn’t want his assistance. When he zipped out to the garage for a few moments, she downed huge gulps of her poison, negating all his previous machinations. She went to court intoxicated and was sent straight to rehab. Even with his frantic efforts to alter the outcome, his wife kept drinking until she decided it was time to make a change.
Alcohol isn’t an issue for me (trust me, I’m plenty relaxed and uninhibited without it), but I see my parents playing the role of my caretaker — decades after I stopped needing such care. They’re worried about me, they claim, and that worry led them to track me down.
“What if you’re worried some day about your teenage daughter?” they ask. “Wouldn’t you go through her drawers? Or read her diary?”
“You bet I would,” I answer. “But I’m not a minor child living under your roof. I’m decades past the age of majority.”
But they love me, they say. They love me so much it hurts. They love me so very much that they are compelled to look after me, to save me from any negative consequences of my actions.
So many sins can be committed in the name of saving a loved one from pain. My experience tells me that this approach cannot work. It can’t save an alcoholic. It can’t change a child’s behavior. It can’t soothe the worry of a parent.
Maybe I’ll feel differently when my little ones get to an age where their decisions can cause more trouble than what can come from dipping hands in the toilet, pulling newly-planted flowers from the garden or refusing to wear a jacket on a chilly day.
This will be my lesson, because I don’t want to do as my parents have. When the time comes, I hope I can trust myself to handle the consequences of whatever decisions my children make.
Even if they aren’t the ones I’d make.



