Your noble son is mad.

The doctor sits down across from his patient’s parents. He adjusts his tie, clicks his pen, clips and unclips the papers in his clipboard and gives his diagnosis. “Your noble son is mad.” He says. And the mother lets out a cry of despair. She had hoped for a reprieve – a case of temporary manic episodes or odd behavior due to exposure to cantaloupe. She does not want her son to be mad, no, not her only son. Her husband takes her hand and holds it. He tries to comfort her. He is actually grateful for this diagnosis. Perhaps, if they know what it is, there is something to be done about it. A diagnosis can be one step closer to cured. He would rather not pretend that nothing is wrong. He hopes to acknowledge what is wrong and figure out a way to deal with it. He imagines that they will have to learn to dance with madness, get to know it as they once knew their son.

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