The Washington Post
Handle with Careby Jodi Picoult, Celeste Ciulla, Jessica Almasy, Jim Colby
Things break all the time.
Day breaks, waves break, voices break.
Every expectant parent will tell you that they don't want a perfect baby, just a healthy one. Charlotte and Sean O'Keefe would have asked for a healthy baby, too, if they'd been given the choice. Instead, their lives are made up of/b>… See more details below
Things break all the time.
Day breaks, waves break, voices break.
Every expectant parent will tell you that they don't want a perfect baby, just a healthy one. Charlotte and Sean O'Keefe would have asked for a healthy baby, too, if they'd been given the choice. Instead, their lives are made up of sleepless nights, mounting bills, the pitying stares of "luckier" parents, and maybe worst of all, the what-ifs. What if their child had been born healthy? But it's all worth it because Willow is, well, funny as it seems, perfect. She's smart as a whip, on her way to being as pretty as her mother, kind, brave, and for a five-year-old an unexpectedly deep source of wisdom. Willow is Willow, in sickness and in health.
Everything changes, though, after a series of events forces Charlotte and her husband to confront the most serious what-ifs of all. What if Charlotte should have known earlier of Willow's illness? What if things could have been different? What if their beloved Willow had never been born? To do Willow justice, Charlotte must ask herself these questions and one more. What constitutes a valuable life?
Emotionally riveting and profoundly moving, Handle with Care brings us into the heart of a family bound by an incredible burden, a desperate will to keep their ties from breaking, and, ultimately, a powerful capacity for love. Written with the grace and wisdom she's become famous for, beloved #1 New York Times bestselling author Jodi Picoult offers us an unforgettable novel about the fragility of life and the lengths we will go to protect it.
The Washington Post
Perennial bestseller Picoult (Change of Heart) delivers another engrossing family drama, spiced with her trademark blend of medicine, law and love. Charlotte and Sean O'Keefe's daughter, Willow, was born with brittle bone disease, a condition that requires Charlotte to act as full-time caregiver and has strained their emotional and financial limits. Willow's teenaged half-sister, Amelia, suffers as well, overshadowed by Willow's needs and lost in her own adolescent turmoil. When Charlotte decides to sue for wrongful birth in order to obtain a settlement to ensure Willow's future, the already strained family begins to implode. Not only is the defendant Charlotte's longtime friend, but the case requires Charlotte and Sean to claim that had they known of Willow's condition, they would have terminated the pregnancy, a statement that strikes at the core of their faith and family. Picoult individualizes the alternating voices of the narrators more believably than she has previously, and weaves in subplots to underscore the themes of hope, regret, identity and family, leading up to her signature closing twists. (Mar.)Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Fans of popular author Picoult (My Sister's Keeper) won't be disappointed with her newest novel, which offers a glimpse into the life of a family whose daughter is born with a severe medical condition that could have been prevented, but at what cost? Sean and Charlotte O'Keefe's magical world is turned upside down when daughter Willow is born with brittle bone disease, a disease so severe that Charlotte is forced into the role of caretaker for Willow and emotionally abandoning older daughter Amelia. It's only when Charlotte decides to sue for wrongful death that the family begins to unravel-even if the reason for the lawsuit is for Willow's future. In order to win the lawsuit, Willow's parents have to claim that they would have aborted her if they had known about her condition, a claim that is so abhorrent that it literally fractures the family. Picoult's novels are like Russian nesting dolls, with each plot unveiling a subplot, leading to an ending that readers never see coming. Highly recommended for all public libraries. [See Prepub Alert, LJ11/1/08.]
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Read an Excerpt
Handle with Care PROLOGUE
February 14, 2002
Things break all the time. Glass, and dishes, and fingernails. Cars and contracts and potato chips. You can break a record, a horse, a dollar. You can break the ice. There are coffee breaks and lunch breaks and prison breaks. Day breaks, waves break, voices break. Chains can be broken. So can silence, and fever.
For the last two months of my pregnancy, I made lists of these things, in the hopes that it would make your birth easier.
On the night before you were born, I sat up in bed with something to add to my list. I rummaged in my nightstand for a pencil and paper, but Sean put his warm hand on my leg. Charlotte? he asked. Is everything okay?
Before I could answer, he pulled me into his arms, flush against him, and I fell asleep feeling safe, forgetting to write down what I had dreamed.
It wasn’t until weeks later, when you were here, that I remembered what had awakened me that night: fault lines. These are the places where the earth breaks apart. These are the spots where earthquakes originate, where volcanoes are born. Or in other words: the world is crumbling under us; it’s the solid ground beneath our feet that’s an illusion.
• • •
You arrived during a storm that nobody had predicted. A nor’easter, the weathermen said later, a blizzard that was supposed to blow north into Canada instead of working its way into a frenzy and battering the coast of New England. The news broadcasts tossed aside their features on high school sweethearts who met up again in a nursing home and got remarried, on the celebrated history behind the candy heart, and instead began to run constant weather bulletins about the strength of the storm and the communities where ice had knocked out the power. Amelia was sitting at the kitchen table, cutting folded paper into valentines as I watched the snow blow in six-foot drifts against the glass slider. The television showed footage of cars sliding off the roads.
I squinted at the screen, at the flashing blues of the police cruiser that had pulled in behind the overturned vehicle, trying to see whether the officer in the driver’s seat was Sean.
A sharp rap on the slider made me jump. “Mommy!” Amelia cried, startled, too.
I turned just in time to see a volley of hail strike a second time, creating a crack in the plate glass no bigger than my fingernail. As we watched, it spread into a web of splintered glass as big as my fist. “Daddy will fix it later,” I said.
That was the moment when my water broke.
Amelia glanced down between my feet. “You had an accident.”
I waddled to the phone, and when Sean didn’t answer his cell, I called Dispatch. “This is Sean O’Keefe’s wife,” I said. “I’m in labor.” The dispatcher said that he could send out an ambulance, but that it would probably take a while—they were maxed out with motor vehicle accidents.
“That’s okay,” I said, remembering the long labor I’d had with your sister. “I’ve probably got a while.”
Suddenly I doubled over with a contraction so strong that the phone fell out of my hand. I saw Amelia watching, her eyes wide. “I’m fine,” I lied, smiling until my cheeks hurt. “The phone slipped.” I reached for the receiver, and this time I called Piper, whom I trusted more than anyone in the world to rescue me.
“You can’t be in labor,” she said, even though she knew better—she was not only my best friend but also my initial obstetrician. “The C-section’s scheduled for Monday.”
“I don’t think the baby got the memo,” I gasped, and I gritted my teeth against another contraction.
She didn’t say what we were both thinking: that I could not have you naturally. “Where’s Sean?”
“I . . . don’t . . . kno—oh, Piper!”
“Breathe,” Piper said automatically, and I started to pant, ha-ha-hee-hee, the way she’d taught me. “I’ll call Gianna and tell her we’re on our way.”
Gianna was Dr. Del Sol, the maternal-fetal-medicine OB who had stepped in just eight weeks ago at Piper’s request. “We?”
“Were you planning on driving yourself?”
Fifteen minutes later, I had bribed away your sister’s questions by settling her on the couch and turning on Blue’s Clues. I sat next to her, wearing your father’s winter coat, the only one that fit me now.
The first time I had gone into labor, I’d had a bag packed and waiting at the door. I’d had a birthing plan and a mix tape of music to play in the delivery room. I knew it would hurt, but the reward was this incredible prize: the child I’d waited months to meet. The first time I had gone into labor, I’d been so excited.
This time, I was petrified. You were safer inside me than you would be once you were out.
Just then the door burst open and Piper filled all the space with her assured voice and her bright pink parka. Her husband, Rob, trailed behind, carrying Emma, who was carrying a snowball. “Blue’s Clues?” he said, settling down next to your sister. “You know, that’s my absolute favorite show . . . after Jerry Springer.”
Amelia. I hadn’t even thought about who would watch her while I was at the hospital having you.
“How far apart?” Piper asked.
My contractions were coming every seven minutes. As another one rolled over me like a riptide, I grabbed the arm of the couch and counted to twenty. I focused on that crack in the glass door.
Trails of frost spiraled outward from its point of origin. It was beautiful and terrifying all at once.
Piper sat down beside me and held my hand. “Charlotte, it’s going to be okay,” she promised, and because I was a fool, I believed her.
• • •
The emergency room was thick with people who’d been injured in motor vehicle accidents during the storm. Young men held bloody towels to their scalps; children mewed on stretchers. I was whisked past them all by Piper, up to the birthing center, where Dr. Del Sol was already pacing the corridor. Within ten minutes, I was being given an epidural and wheeled to the operating room for a C-section.
I played games with myself: if there are an even number of fluorescent lights on the ceiling of this corridor, then Sean will arrive in time. If there are more men than women in the elevator, everything the doctors told me will turn out to be a mistake. Without me even having to ask, Piper had put on scrubs, so that she could fill in for Sean as my labor coach. “He’ll be here,” she said, looking down at me.
The operating room was clinical, metallic. A nurse with green eyes—that was all I could see above her mask and below her cap—lifted my gown and swabbed my belly with Betadine. I started to panic as they hung the sterile drape in place. What if I didn’t have enough anesthesia running through the lower half of my body and I felt the scalpel slicing me? What if, in spite of all I’d hoped for, you were born and did not survive?
Suddenly the door flew open. Sean blew into the room on a cold streak of winter, holding a mask up to his face, his scrub shirt haphazardly tucked in. “Wait,” he cried. He came to the head of the stretcher and touched my cheek. “Baby,” he said. “I’m sorry. I came as soon as I heard—”
Piper patted Sean on the arm. “Three’s a crowd,” she said, backing away from me, but not before she squeezed my hand one last time.
And then, Sean was beside me, the heat of his palms on my shoulders, the hymn of his voice distracting me as Dr. Del Sol lifted the scalpel. “You scared the hell out of me,” he said. “What were you and Piper thinking, driving yourselves?”
“That we didn’t want to have the baby on the kitchen floor?”
Sean shook his head. “Something awful could have happened.”
I felt a tug below the white drape and sucked in my breath, turning my head to the side. That was when I saw it: the enlarged twenty-seven-week sonogram with your seven broken bones, your fiddlehead limbs bowed inward. Something awful already has happened, I thought.
And then you were crying, even though they lifted you as if you were made out of spun sugar. You were crying, but not the hitched, simple cry of a newborn. You were screaming as if you’d been torn apart. “Easy,” Dr. Del Sol said to the OR nurse. “You need to support the whole—”
There was a pop, like a burst bubble, and although I had not thought it possible, you screamed even louder. “Oh, God,” the nurse said, her voice a cone of hysteria. “Was that a break? Did I do that?” I tried to see you, but I could only make out a slash of a mouth, the ruby furor of your cheeks.
The team of doctors and nurses gathered around you couldn’t stop your sobbing. I think, until the moment I heard you cry, a part of me had believed that all the sonograms and tests and doctors had been wrong. Until the moment I heard you cry, I had been worried that I wouldn’t know how to love you.
Sean peered over their shoulders. “She’s perfect,” he said, turning to me, but the words curled up at the end like a puppy’s tail, looking for approval.
Perfect babies didn’t sob so hard that you could feel your own heart tearing down the center. Perfect babies looked that way on the outside, and were that way on the inside.
“Don’t lift her arm,” a nurse murmured.
And another: “How am I supposed to swaddle her if I can’t touch her?”
And through it all you screamed, a note I’d never heard before.
Willow, I whispered, the name that your father and I had agreed on. I had had to convince him. I won’t call her that, he said. They weep. But I wanted to give you a prophecy to carry with you, the name of a tree that bends instead of breaking.
Willow, I whispered again, and somehow through the cacophony of the medical staff and the whir of machinery and the fever pitch of your pain, you heard me.
Willow, I said out loud, and you turned toward the sound as if the word was my arms around you. Willow, I said, and just like that, you stopped crying.
• • •
When I was five months pregnant, I got a call from the restaurant where I used to work. The pastry chef’s mother had broken her hip, and they had a food critic coming in that night from the Boston Globe, and even though it was incredibly presumptuous and surely not a good time for me, could I possibly come in and just whip up my chocolate mille-feuille, the one with the spiced chocolate ice cream, avocado, and bananas brûlée?
I admit, I was being selfish. I felt logy and fat, and I wanted to remind myself that I had once been good for something other than playing Go Fish with your sister and separating the laundry into whites and darks. I left Amelia with a teenage sitter and drove to Capers.
The kitchen hadn’t changed in the years since I’d been there, although the new head chef had moved around the items in the pantries. I immediately cleared off my work space and set about making my phyllo. Somewhere in the middle of it all, I dropped a stick of butter, and I reached down to pick it up before someone slipped and fell. But this time, when I bent forward, I was acutely aware of the fact that I could not jackknife at the waist anymore. I felt you steal my breath, as I stole yours. “Sorry, baby,” I said out loud, and I straightened up again.
Now I wonder: Is that when those seven breaks happened? When I kept someone else from getting hurt, did I hurt you?
• • •
I gave birth shortly after three, but I didn’t see you again until it was eight p.m. Every half hour, Sean left to get an update: She’s being X-rayed. They’re drawing blood. They think her ankle might be broken, too. And then, at six o’clock, he brought the best news of all: Type III, he said. She’s got seven healing fractures and four new ones, but she’s breathing fine. I lay in the hospital bed, smiling uncontrollably, certain that I was the only mother in the birthing center who had ever been delighted with news like this.
For two months now, we had known that you’d be born with OI—osteogenesis imperfecta, two letters of the alphabet that would become second nature. It was a collagen defect that caused bones so brittle they might break with a stumble, a twist, a sneeze. There were several types—but only two presented with fractures in utero, like we’d seen on my ultrasound. And yet the radiologist could still not conclusively say whether you had Type II, which was fatal at birth, or Type III, which was severe and progressively deforming. Now I knew that you might have hundreds more breaks over the years, but it hardly mattered: you would have a lifetime in which to sustain them.
When the storm let up, Sean went home to get your sister, so that she could meet you. I watched the Doppler weather scan track the blizzard as it moved south, turning into an icy rain that would paralyze the Washington, D.C., airports for three days. There was a knock at my door, and I struggled to sit up a bit, even though doing so sent fire through my new stitches. “Hey,” Piper said, coming into the room and sitting on the edge of my bed. “I heard the news.”
“I know,” I said. “We’re so lucky.”
There was only the tiniest hesitation before she smiled and nodded. “She’s on her way down now,” Piper said, and just then, a nurse pushed a bassinet into the room.
“Here’s Mommy,” she trilled.
You were fast asleep on your back, on the undulating foam egg crate with which they had lined the little plastic bed. There were bandages wrapped around your tiny arms and legs, your left ankle.
As you got older, it would be easier to tell that you had OI—people who knew what to look for would see it in the bowing of your arms and legs, in the triangular peak of your face and the fact that you would never grow much beyond three feet tall—but right then, even with your bandages, you looked flawless. Your skin was the color of the palest peach, your mouth a tiny raspberry. Your hair was flyaway, golden, your eyelashes as long as my pinkie fingernail. I reached out to touch you and—remembering—drew my hand away.
I had been so busy wishing for your survival that I hadn’t given much thought to the challenges it would present. I had a beautiful baby girl, who was as fragile as a soap bubble. As your mother, I was supposed to protect you. But what if I tried and only wound up doing harm?
Piper and the nurse exchanged a glance. “You want to hold her, don’t you?” she said, and she slid her arm as a brace beneath the foam liner while the nurse raised the edges into parabolic wings that would support your arms. Slowly, they placed the foam into the crook of my elbow.
Hey, I whispered, cradling you closer. My hand, trapped beneath you, felt the rough edge of the foam pad. I wondered how long it would be before I could carry the damp weight of you, feel your skin against mine. I thought of all the times Amelia had cried as a newborn; how I’d nurse her in bed and fall asleep with her in my embrace, always worried that I might roll over and hurt her. But with you, even lifting you out of the crib could be a danger. Even rubbing your back.
I looked up at Piper. “Maybe you should take her . . .”
She sank down beside me and traced a finger over the rising moon of your scalp. “Charlotte,” Piper said, “she won’t break.”
We both knew that was a lie, but before I could call her on it, Amelia streaked into the room, snow on her mittens and woolen hat. “She’s here, she’s here,” your sister sang. The day I had told her you were coming, she asked if it could be in time for lunch. When I told her she’d have to wait about five months, she decided that was too long. Instead, she pretended that you had already arrived, carrying around her favorite doll and calling her Sissy. Sometimes, when Amelia got bored or distracted, she would drop the doll on its head, and your father would laugh. Good thing that’s the practice version, he’d say.
Sean filled the doorway just as Amelia climbed onto the bed, into Piper’s lap, to pass judgment. “She’s too small to skate with me,” Amelia said. “And how come she’s dressed like a mummy?”
“Those are ribbons,” I said. “Gift wrapping.”
It was the first time I lied to protect you, and as if you knew, you chose that moment to wake up. You didn’t cry, you didn’t squirm. “What happened to her eyes?” Amelia gasped, as we all looked at the calling card for your disease: the whites of your sclera, which instead flashed a brilliant, electric blue.
• • •
In the middle of the night, the graveyard shift of nurses came on duty. You and I were fast asleep when the woman came into the room. I swam into consciousness, focusing on her uniform, her ID tag, her frizzy red hair. “Wait,” I said, as she reached for your swaddled blanket. “Be careful.”
She smiled indulgently. “Relax, Mom. I’ve only checked a diaper ten thousand times.”
But this was before I had learned to be your voice, and as she untucked the fold of the swaddling, she pulled too fast. You rolled to your side and started to shriek—not the whimper you’d made earlier, when you were hungry, but the shrill whistle I’d heard when you were born. “You hurt her!”
“She just doesn’t like getting up in the middle of the night—”
I could not imagine anything worse than your cries, but then your skin turned as blue as your eyes, and your breath became a string of gasps. The nurse leaned over with her stethoscope. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong with her?” I demanded.
She frowned as she listened to your chest, and then suddenly you went limp. The nurse pressed a button behind my bed. “Code Blue,” I heard, and the tiny room was suddenly packed with people, even though it was still the middle of the night. Words flew like missiles: hypoxemic . . . arterial blood gas . . . SO2 of forty-six percent . . . administering FIO2.
“I’m starting chest compressions,” someone said.
“This one’s got OI.”
“Better to live with some fractures than die without them.”
“We need a portable chest film stat—”
“There were no breath sounds on the left side when this started—”
“No point waiting for the X-ray. There could be a tension pneumothorax—”
Between the shifting columns of their bodies, I saw the wink of a needle sinking between your ribs, and then moments later a scalpel cutting below it, the bead of blood, the clamp, the length of tubing that was fed into your chest. I watched them sew the tube into place, where it snaked out of your side.
By the time Sean arrived, wild-eyed and frantic, you had been moved to the NICU. “They cut her,” I sobbed, the only words I could manage to find, and when he pulled me into his arms, I finally let go of all the tears I’d been too terrified to cry.
“Mr. and Mrs. O’Keefe? I’m Dr. Rhodes.” A man who looked young enough to be in high school poked his head into the room, and Sean’s hand grabbed mine tightly.
“Is Willow all right?” Sean asked.
“Can we see her?”
“Soon,” the doctor said, and the knot inside me dissolved. “A chest X-ray confirmed a broken rib. She was hypoxemic for several minutes, which resulted in an expanding pneumothorax, a resultant mediastinal shift, and cardiopulmonary arrest.”
“English,” Sean roared. “For God’s sake.”
“She was without oxygen for a few minutes, Mr. O’Keefe. Her heart, trachea, and major vessels shifted to the opposite side of her body as a result of the air that filled her chest cavity. The chest tube will allow them to go back where they belong.”
“No oxygen,” Sean said, the words sticking in his throat. “You’re talking about brain damage.”
“It’s possible. We won’t know for a while.”
Sean leaned forward, his hands clasped so tight that the knuckles stood out in bright white relief. “But her heart . . .”
“She’s stable now—although there’s a possibility of another cardiovascular collapse. We’re just not sure how her body will react to what we’ve done to save her this time.”
I burst into tears. “I don’t want her to go through that again. I can’t let them do that to her, Sean.”
The doctor looked stricken. “You might want to consider a DNR. It’s a do not resuscitate order that’s kept in her medical file. It basically says that if something like this occurs again, you don’t want any extraordinary measures taken to revive Willow.”
I had spent the last few weeks of my pregnancy preparing myself for the worst, and as it turned out, it wasn’t anywhere close.
“Just something to think about,” the doctor said.
• • •
Maybe, Sean said, she wasn’t meant to be here with us. Maybe this is God’s will.
What about my will? I asked. I want her. I’ve wanted her all along.
He looked up at me, wounded. And you think I haven’t?
Through the window, I could see the slope of the hospital lawn, covered with dazzling snow. It was a knife-bright, blinding day; you never would have guessed that hours before there had been a raging blizzard. An enterprising father, trying to occupy his son, had taken a cafeteria tray outside. The boy was careening down the hill, whooping as a spray of snow arced out behind him. He stood up and waved toward the hospital, where someone must have been looking out from a window just like mine. I wondered if his mother was in the hospital, having another baby. If she was next door, even now, watching her son sled.
My daughter, I thought absently, will never be able to do that.
• • •
Piper held my hand tightly as we stared down at you in the NICU. The chest tube was still snaking out from between your battered ribs; bandages wrapped your arms and legs tight. I swayed a little on my feet. “Are you okay?” Piper asked.
“I’m not the one you need to worry about.” I looked up at her. “They asked if we wanted to sign a DNR.”
Piper’s eyes widened. “Who asked that?”
“He’s a resident,” she said, as distastefully as if she’d said “He’s a Nazi.” “He doesn’t know the way to the cafeteria yet, much less the protocol for talking to a mother who’s just watched her baby suffer a full cardiac arrest in front of her eyes. No pediatrician would recommend a newborn be DNR before there was brain testing that proved irreversible damage—”
“They cut her open in front of me,” I said, my voice quivering. “I heard her ribs break when they tried to start her heart again.”
“Would you sign one?”
When she didn’t answer, I walked to the other side of the bassinet, so that you were caught between us like a secret. “Is this what the rest of my life is going to be like?”
For a long time, Piper didn’t respond. We listened to the symphony of whirs and beeps that surrounded you. I watched you startle, your tiny toes curling up, your arms open wide. “Not the rest of your life,” Piper said. “Willow’s.”
Later that day, with Piper’s words ringing in my ears, I signed the do not resuscitate order. It was a plea for mercy in black and white, until you read between the lines: here was the first time I lied, and said that I wished you’d never been born.
Meet the Author
Jodi Picoult received an AB in creative writing from Princeton and a master’s degree in education from Harvard. The recipient of the 2003 New England Book Award for her entire body of work, she is the author of twenty-one novels, including the #1 New York Times bestsellers House Rules, Handle With Care, Change of Heart, and My Sister’s Keeper, for which she received the American Library Association’s Margaret Alexander Edwards Award. She lives in New Hampshire with her husband and three children. Visit her website at JodiPicoult.com.
- Hanover, New Hampshire
- Date of Birth:
- May 19, 1966
- Place of Birth:
- Nesconset, Long Island, NY
- A.B. in Creative Writing, Princeton University; M.A. in Education, Harvard University
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As a person with multiple disabilities--a "disabled person"--I have so much more respect for authors who tell it like it is, rather than glossing over the realities. I *am* dependant on my mother: at 24, I live in her house, paying no rent and contributing nothing financially to the household, and that situation is likely to stay that way for the foreseeable future. Even if I eventually get "out on my own" it'll likely be on her dollar; full independence is not something I expect ever to have. I'm also a burden to her, financially, of course, but also emotionally: I get hospitalized at least once a year--which is hard for her both because she's scared for me, and because she nearly kills herself trying to be there for me while working and taking care of her elderly mother--and also, I know that she hurts every time there's something I want to do that I can't. Whether it's going to school, or working, or even going out with friends, when I fail, it hurts my mom like I don't think anything else can. I know this. A person, even a child, knows these things, even if no one uses specific words to describe them. That's why I applaud Ms. Picoult for writing stories that take place in the real world, in my real world. I'm sick of books where, at the end, the new treatment is found, or the child miraculously recovers. I'm sure it happens sometimes, and that's great, but it doesn't ring true to me. I want to read about people I can relate to. Would my mother have aborted me if she'd know what I was going to be like? I don't know. But I do know that she hurts for me every day, and that if someone told her she'd give birth to a child who suffered as I do, she would have thought long and hard about her options. That doesn't mean she doesn't love me. It means she loves me enough to hate how much I hurt. The idea of a mother, going to court to get money to help her child...my mom's not rich. And it is a huge struggle for her to pay for my care. If there was someone who could have told her I'd suffer this way 25 years ago...this book is real. It's about real people, real questions, and real struggles. You don't have to like it. But don't tell me what disabled people think, or feel, and don't tell me that Ms. Picoult's book, rather than your narrow-minded opinions, hurt me. By the way: for someone so concerned with what "disabled people" think and feel: we mostly stopped calling ourselves that years ago. Just for your information.
I agree with everyone else. The lady that wants the book banned is living in some sort of 3rd dimension. Jodi Picoult has and probably always will, write about controversial subjects. What sets her apart from others is that she does so with such brilliance and subtlety. She is one of the finest writers of our time. If someone doesn't like a book, what they need to do is, close it and pick up another that they don't "disagree" with. It is narrow mindedness like this that stunts emotional and intelligent growth.
Are you serious? My brother has autism and mental retardation, and quite honestly, I find this book to hit close to home, in a good way. Because when you really think about it, I would give anything for my brother to live a normal, happy, full health life, but in no way does Ms. Picoult's writing influence how I feel about him. I know you are just stating your opinion, but remember, hers are just opinions as well. Just because she comes out with this book does not mean it will influence how other people feel about their child. And I find your use of the world "disabled" insulting. My brother is not disabled. He does the same things you and I do everyday, even with all the problems he has. Disabled means something is stopping you. Nothing is stopping my brother from being perfectly happy. I find Jodi Picoult an amazing author knowing exactly how to tug at the heart strings, and how to make tears of joy, release, and pain flow from our hearts through our eyes. Her work is astonishing. I've read quite a few of her books, and they're all controversal, but in a good way. These sorts of things DO happen in today's world, after all.
The purpose of literature is to make people think and to debate ideas. If this novel inspires people to have opinions and to voice them, then Piccoult has done her job.
As a parent of a child with special needs this book touched my heart. My doctor knew there was something wrong with my baby in utero and chose not to tell me. He knew me well and because I had trouble conceiving knew I would want to carry to term no matter what. However I probably should have been told. This story does an amazing job at making you see both sides no-matter-what side you agree with. I would hope that in real life friends would have the ability to discuss the issues before needing them to be settled in a court of law. But then we wouldn't have Jodi's books.
You say that you don't like Ms. Picoult's style of writing. Why do you keep reading her books, then? If you don't like the book, that's fine, but banning it is a bit extreme. It is fiction, and I seriously doubt that any intelligent reader will think they should change their views based on a fictional situation. Do you believe that there are no families with children with special needs who ever resent that child, or consider them a burden?
In 2002 in New Hampshire, happily married Charlotte and Sean O¿Keefe look forward to their second child who they pray will be as healthy as their daughter Amelia. At the hospital during a nasty Nor¿easter, Charlotte gives birth, but knows something is wrong when she hears a pop and the stunned nurse asks if she did that. As Sean says she is perfect, Dr. Gianna Del Sol and the OR nurse tell Charlotte not to lift the newborn¿s arm. Willow is born with Type III Osteogenesis imperfecta; brittle bone disease that will mean hundreds of broken bones over the years from sneezes, falls and sudden movement.
Over the next few years, Charlotte, having given up her vocation as a chef, becomes Willow¿s caretaker. The costs of raising her are exorbitant and the impact emotionally on each family member is straining relationships; especially feeling lost is adolescent Amelia who has never been on a vacation and the only trip outside the state was to a special hospital in Nebraska for her younger half-sister¿s care. Worried about Willow after she is gone, Charlotte sues her best friend Piper who was her initial obstetrician and never said anything about an unhealthy fetus. Charlotte¿s actions divide the O¿Keefe family further as questions of abortion are raised at court.
The key to this insightful family drama is each of the prime O¿Keefe players have differing personalities and react to situations in varying manners. The story line is obviously driven by the cast especially by Willow who knows she is loved by the sacrifices made for her. Fans will see the impact on her parents and her sister as all focus is on her. As always Jodi Picoult provides a poignant tale that discerningly raises awareness of the impact an ailing dependent has on others in her circle.
Cheating: when you use Ragu from a jar because you're too dilatory or you have too little time to make something fresh. This is how I felt about Jodi Picoult's latest book, Handle With Care. Instead of getting the extraordinary, thought provoking, family drama I was hoping for, I just got a carbon copy of My Sister's Keeper. Same tigress of a mother, fighting for the sick kid. Dad's a cop not a firefighter, wow that's original. The ignored teen sibling is a klepto, bulimic, cutter instead of a pyromaniac. Even the lawyers are parallel. And if you have to use a different font to differentiate your first person points of view it might be a sign that you're voices are all too similar. As for the ending, that was just too cheap for words. What worked in My Sister's Keeper, just felt like the worst kind of betrayal in this book. And how about a little research? Or better yet, where were the editors. Did anyone at Simon and Schuster even read this before putting it out there for us to spend 30.00 bucks on? How can you be so renowned for your research and then write a book about a child with brittle bones and not know that the tibia and fibula are in the lower leg, not the lower arm? I'll even let the ignorance of orangutan anatomy go, but come on, even kindergarteners know that orangutan's don't have tails. Maybe she should take a little more time with her next book and come up with something more original. I know she has it in her.
When I heard a book that had a character with OI was coming out, I was excited. I have OI, and it's not a disease that many people have heard of, so I looked forward to reading it. It wasn't very many pages in when I started seriously considering taking the book outside and burning it though. I have the same type of OI and the gloom and doom description of the disorder is very offensive. The central plot is that the character with OI will never be able to live independently, will always need a caretaker, and thus, her mother was making a wrongful birth lawsuit to pay for her care. While I have broken a lot of bones, endured a lot of surgeries, and rely on a wheelchair, I and all the people I know with OI live independent lives. I went away to school (and am now working on my second Masters Degree), drive my ownself, and have a job. I may have to be careful to avoid breaking bones, but I live a normal life. Jodi Picoult missed the boat on this one. Yeah, it's a painful disorder, but people do live full and productive lives with it. It's such a shame that one of the few books that even mention OI twisted it into a disorder in which people who have it are hopelessly crippled and totally dependent on others. Jodi Picoult really missed an opportunity here: she could've written about a person with OI who overcame extreme obstacles to be a productive member of society. Instead, she wrote a pathetic sob story with a cop-out ending. I will not buy another book by Jodi Picoult...I liked My Sister's Keeper, but after reading this piece of crap, I'll spend my money on another author.
Handle With Care is the SADDEST book I have possibly ever read! There is nothing redeeming about any of the characters and and the usual Jodi Piccout little surprise at the end which i was waiting for was just plain tragic. The mother never learned anything and lives were destroyed. Up to the very ending with the check! - What a complete waste! I was so disappointed and saddened that this book haunts me, and not in a good way. I can't even recommend it to my friends because it is sooo sad and there are NO redeeming factors at all.I've read quite a few of Ms. Piccoults books and usually Really like them. Unfortunately, not this time.
As others have said before, this story line is almost exactly like Picoult's other novel, My Sister's Keeper, except Handle With Care isn't nearly as good. My Sister's Keeper was the first Picoult book I read. I couldn't put it down and I cried at the ending. Nothing else Picoult has written--other than Nineteen Minutes--has been nearly as good as MSK. Handle With Care was entirely too predictable and I often found myself rolling my eyes at some of the pedantic details and descriptions of the characters. I would not recommend this book--it was a big disappointment.
"Me thinks the lady (substitue anonymous) doth protest too much". Maybe the book hit too close to home for them???
I've read all of the author's books to date and have recommended her to other avid readers; however, even though the topic was enlightening and heart rendering, the storyline, especially the last few pages, was unrealistic and frustrating at best. Jodi was headed toward a happy ending, then abruptly decided to leave her readers heartbroken. It was so unreal I slammed the book shut in disgust.
I'm glad I read this book. For so long i was a fan, until "My Sister's Keeper" and the gut wrenching ending. Although well written, marvelous Picoult prose, the ending ruins the entire book. Do your self a favor, don't buy it - you won't like it.
I liked most of the book however, my brother also had OI Type III and I know that there were many things that Willow did that were impossible for an OI child to do. It is not unusual for a mother of an OI child to question sometimes if they should have made a different choice like Willow's mom did but I didn't like the way she continued to allow the law suit to distroy her family. I was very upset about the ending and thought it was totally unnecessary to the story.
I had not read this author before and I am now on her third book, each and every one that is so awe inspiring and heart wrenching. She has taught me so much about life and tragedy. Keep up the excellent writing.
I love Jodi's books, and this one did not disappoint. It was very informative about OI and she explored the difficulties that families encounter when there are disabilities involved. It was a sad story, which I was affected by as a mother for quite a while after finishing the book.
It was going good. Knowing I was reading a J Picoult book I was totally prepared for a kid to die....at any second. Then we're nearly at the end and all is good. Yay! Wait. No. No way. That ending was dumb and completely unnecessary. I would recommend you skip this one. Or not. Pretty par for the course if you know this author.
I am a huge fan of Jodi Piccoult! However I really disliked this book. It was so long and boring. I am a nurse and I saw many inaccuracies related to the medical aspect of the book. Some of the story line seemed over the top dramatic and parts of the book could have been left out. This book is not as good as her others like "My Sister's Keeper" or "Salem Falls" I am still a Piccoult fan!
Jodi Picoult is one of my favortie authors and this is my favorite book that she has written. The idea for this book was very original and I could not put the book down. All throughout the book I grew this sadness for Willow who has OI. She was suffering day to day with her sickness and she would never be able to live a normal life without pain. At first I questioned what her mother was doing but then I realized that what she was doing was only out of love and it shows at the end. Reading this book really puts you into the shoes of people dealing with OI. You can only read to believe.
I, like so many reviewers, have read all of Jodi Picoult's books and have always looked forward to the next one. Not so anymore. This book is almost a copy of my Sisters Keeper, only not nearly as good. There were places in this book that were so sappy I was actually rolling my eyes. This is not the writing style and dialog that I have come to expect from Jodi. It actually seemed more like Danielle Steele. I was also extremely disappointed with the ending. Sorry to say, but this is my last Jodi Picoult book.
Any fan of Jodi Picoult knows that she loves to write shocker endings. Her latest novel doesn't disappoint. All the time I was reading this book I thought it was ok. However when I read the last chapter it made me hate the entire book. It was as if Picoult only added in the last chapter because she knew her fans were expecting a shocker ending. I really wish I hadn't wasted my time reading this book. Rather I wish I would have read one of Picoult's other novels that I haven't read yet.
Since no one thinks exactly the same it isn't really fair to label this book as bad simply because someone got offended at some of the terminology. People need to remember that novels are FICTIONAL and the author has to write as if the character were thinking these things. This doesn't necessarily mean that the author believes what the main character believes/feels. It's similar to how audiences rip apart an actor because of the character they represent.
I was very disappointed by this book. The ending was particularly disappointing and I felt like Piccoult had rushed to close with a dramatic ending.
Another Jodi Picoult book I enjoyed. My favorite is still "My Sister's Keeper", but this book didn't disappoint. Although I disagreed with most of the mother's decisions in this book, I felt it taught an invaluable lesson at the end. Worth reading.