If my brother went insane, I’d take him to the finest mental institution the country has to offer.
It would be located on a sprawling country estate, possibly donated by a local wealthy benefactor. There would be large old trees and views all the way to the water. In the summer it would be warm, but not too hot. On some spring mornings, there would be a morning mist around the trees and between the hills that sit behind the building. Fall would be by far the prettiest season. A slight breeze would send changing leaves sailing across the spacious front lawn. If you got up early enough, you could see the deer grazing on the outskirts of the meadow.
I would come up often to visit my crazy brother. Even though he wouldn’t always know my name, or why he was there, we would have good talks together. We could go walking around the pond; we could even feed the ducks. My brother likes ducks. Some days we would just sit on one of the benches located to the south of the building. We would talk and watch the afternoon sun droop in the sky. Slowly, but not too slow. At night, I’d have to return to town and the B&B I’d stay in whenever I came to visit. My brother would have spaghetti, or lasagna, or burritos or fresh corn on the cob. They would take good care of him, even though he would be crazier than old Mrs. Havisham.
On certain days I could take him for a drive. We’d drive around the countryside. I would take him to the mall to stock up on clothes and maybe a new book. I wouldn’t be able to take him home with me, on account of his intense insanity, but I would want to.
There are many little things I could do for my brother if he were to go off-the-wall insane. I would think of myself as a caregiver. Not because I would give him care – the institution would provide food, lodging, and medicine – but because I would care about him. And that is almost as important.