They Said She Was Crazy, But She Was Begging for Help

My mother cried and told me. She said the caregiver would tie her to the wheelchair and starve her every day after I left for work. I thought it was ridiculous.

An eightyyearold woman with advanced Alzheimer's—it was only normal for her to confuse reality with hallucinations.

Suppressing my impatience, I bought some fresh fruit for the caregiver to apologize for my mother's accusations, and even gave her a fivehundreddollar raise.

But the next day, two deep purple bruise marks appeared on my mother’s wrists. I assumed she had scratched herself. I didn’t believe her at all.

Until the third day, when the caregiver sent me a Snapchat video of my mother smiling and eating.

Infuriated by my mother's "lies," I lost my temper and yelled at her: "She takes such good care of you! How can you keep framing her?!" Tears welled up in my mother’s cloudy eyes.

Trembling, she repeated: "Ethan, it’s the truth..." That night, I told the caregiver to give her an extra sleeping pill, just to keep her from making a scene in the middle of the night.

But as I turned off the lights and lay down, a chilling thought crawled into my mind: Why did an eightyyearold Alzheimer’s patient say the exact same sentence every single time she had a rare, lucid moment? "Ethan, your mom slept so well last night.

She didn't wake up once." Helena came out of the kitchen holding a plate of pasta. She smiled at me, showing a row of neat, white teeth.

I stood in the entryway, changing my shoes, and didn't reply.

The thought from last night was still stuck in my throat like a fishbone—why did she always say the exact same thing when she was lucid?

But as the morning sun filtered in, my doubts evaporated like morning mist. Helena placed the pasta in front of my mother.

She bent down, her voice as soft as cotton: "Sarah, time for breakfast. I added the seafood you like today." My mother sat in her wheelchair, her head low, motionless.

I walked over and knelt down to look at her. Seeing me, her lips trembled, but no sound came out. "Mom, eat." She lowered her head and reached her hand toward the bowl.

The bruises on her wrists were still there—two angry purple lines. Helena noticed my gaze and sighed. She pulled out her phone, swiped twice, and showed me a video.

In it, my mother was sitting in her wheelchair, frantically clawing at the safety straps, her face blank, as if she didn't know what she was doing. "See? It’s just the disease.

The doctor said that in the middle stages of Alzheimer's, patients develop these repetitive, compulsive behaviors." I stared at the video twice and let out a sigh of relief. Right.

She did it to herself. "Thank you, Helena. I know it’s hard work." "It's not hard at all, Ethan. It's my job." Before leaving, I bent down at the door to tie my sneakers.

Behind me, a tiny, raspy whisper floated over. "Ethan..." I turned around.

My mother had strained her neck to look at me, a spark of clarity piercing through her cloudy eyes. "Don't... don't go..." Helena immediately walked over, knelt beside her, and gently took her hand. "Sarah, your boy has to go to work to make a living.

Stay with me, okay? We can watch TV together." My mother's hand flinched. She pulled back quickly, as if she had touched a hot stove. I noticed it.

But it was only a fleeting second. The next moment, Helena gripped my mother’s hand firmly, turned to me, and smiled warmly. "Go on, Ethan.

Don't worry, I've got this." The moment the door clicked shut, I thought I heard something crash inside. But maybe it was just my imagination. I couldn't focus at work that day.

I revised my proposal three times, and it still felt wrong. At lunch, Leo invited me out. Seeing my pale face, he asked what was wrong. Leo was my childhood friend.

He worked as an investigative journalist, and his job made him naturally paranoid.

I regretted telling him the story halfway through. "Hold on," Leo put down his fork. "You're saying your mother says the exact same sentence every time she's lucid?" "It's just Alzheimer's.

It's normal for them to repeat things." "Repeating past memories is normal.

But repeating a description of what is currently happening to her—Ethan, that's a cry for help." I got annoyed. "Stop with the conspiracy theories, Leo. Helena is doing a great job.

She sends me photos and videos daily. I see it with my own eyes." Leo didn't say anything more, but the look in his eyes was deeply unsettling.

When I got home that evening, Helena was waiting by the door. She handed me a warm towel to wipe my hands. "Ethan, Sarah was in a great mood today.

She ate a whole bowl of chicken soup and watched some TV. I took a Snapchat video, let me show you—" "No need." I walked straight past her into my mother's room.

She was already lying down, the blanket pulled up to her chin, her eyes closed. I bent down to tuck her in. The moment my hand brushed her arm, she flinched.

Her entire body shuddered, as if shocked by electricity. I pulled back the blanket. On her left arm was a dark bruise.

It wasn't on her wrist, but on the inside of her upper arm—a place completely hidden by her sleeves. It was a handprint.

Four fingermarks, clearly bruised from a violent squeeze. "Helena." "Yes, Ethan?

What's wrong?" "My mother's arm—" "Oh, that," Helena walked in, looking at it calmly. "She wanted to use the restroom this afternoon. I was helping her walk, but her foot slipped.

I had to grab her hard to keep her from falling. I guess I used too much force.

I'll massage it for her later; it'll heal in no time." As she spoke, she actually walked over and gently massaged my mother’s arm. "Sarah, does it hurt?

Let me rub it for you." My mother remained silent. But it wasn't the vacant silence of dementia.

Her mouth was clamped shut, her jaw clenched tight, as if she were biting her tongue. "See?" Helena sighed. "She's ignoring me again. Her mood changes ten times a day.

I'm used to it." I stared at the bruise, and then at Helena’s hand. Her hands were large, with thick joints—the hands of someone who did heavy labor.

They matched the bruise perfectly. "Ethan?" I snapped out of it. "It's nothing. Thank you, Helena. Get some rest." Back in my room, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep.

At 1:00 AM, I got up to use the bathroom. Passing my mother's room, I noticed the door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open a crack. The nightlight was on. My mother wasn't asleep.

She was sitting up in bed, staring at the bruise on her left arm in the dim light. She stared at it for a long, painful time.

Then, she pulled her sleeve down to cover it, turned her head into her pillow, and began to weep silently. I stood outside the door, my feet glued to the floor.

The next morning, I found a scrap of paper under my mother's pillow.

On it was a single word, scribbled in shaky, agonizing handwriting. "HURT." I stood there holding the note, my mind going entirely blank.

Helena peered over my shoulder from behind. "Oh, Sarah is scribbling again. She found a pen somewhere yesterday. I was looking for it everywhere.

Ethan, we have to hide sharp objects. What if she pokes her own eye out?" "I know." I balled up the note in my hand and stuffed it into my pocket.

All morning, that single word burned against my thigh through my pants. Hurt.

A woman who couldn't even remember her own son's name had forced her shaking hand to write just one word. Why didn't she write anything else?

"Ethan, I think we need to adjust your mom's medication." On Sunday, Helena was washing dishes in the kitchen, her back to me.

I was looking over my mother's medical reports and didn't look up. "What do you mean?" "Lately, she's been waking up a lot at night. She gets agitated, cries, and screams.

I can't sleep at all. Last night she kept me up until 3:00 AM. You know I'm not young anymore.

I can't pull allnighters like this." She turned off the faucet, wiped her hands, walked over, and sat across from me. "I know a neurologist, Dr. Arthur Jenkins.

He specializes in dementia, and he has amazing reviews online. How about I set up a virtual consultation? We can do a video call first." I hesitated.

My mother's prescription had always been managed by the general hospital, taken strictly according to the doctor's orders. "Helena, we should go to the hospital to adjust her meds." "Booking an appointment at the hospital is such a hassle.

Plus, it's freezing outside. What if she catches a cold on the way?" She clutched her silver cross necklace. "Dr. Jenkins is a wonderful man.

A quick FaceTime call to ask some questions won't hurt. We don't have to change the meds right away." That afternoon, Helena initiated the FaceTime call.

On the screen was a middleaged man with glasses, wearing a white lab coat. A medical license hung on the wall behind him.

He flipped through the photos of the medical reports I sent, asked a few questions about her symptoms, and quickly reached a conclusion. "It's midstage Alzheimer's, accompanied by severe Sundown Syndrome and paranoia.

Her current dosage is too conservative. I suggest adding one tablet of Olanzapine before bed." "Don't we need to go to the hospital?" "You can try this for two weeks first.

If there's no improvement, bring her in. I'll send you the prescription." I looked at Helena, and she nodded at me reassuringly. "Dr. Jenkins is highly professional.

He adjusted the meds for several seniors I cared for before." That night, my mother took the extra pill of Olanzapine. The next morning, she didn't wake up.

I thought she was just sleeping in, so I didn't worry. But by noon, she was still unconscious. Panicking, I went to shake her. "Mom? Mom?" Her eyelids fluttered.

With great effort, she opened them a crack, mumbling something incoherent. "Don't worry, Ethan.

It's just a normal drug reaction," Helena said, walking in with some liquid food. "She'll be drowsy for the first couple of days.

She'll get used to it." From that day on, my mother spent less and less time awake.

Before, she could at least sit in her wheelchair and watch TV, occasionally uttering a lucid word. Now, she slept seventeen to eighteen hours a day.

Even when she was awake, she was in a vegetative daze, looking at the world through a thick fog. She stopped talking about the caregiver tying her up.

Not because she didn't want to, but because she couldn't. Her mouth would open, her tongue struggling to move, but the only sounds she made were tiny whimpers that died instantly.

I comforted myself. At least she's peaceful now. This is a good thing. Helena’s Instagram stories became more frequent. Day 1: "Made some pumpkin puree for Sarah.

Fed her spoonful by spoonful, and she smiled." The photo showed my mother with her eyes halfclosed, her lips pulled into a faint, empty grimace.

Day 2: "Soaking up the sun on the balcony. Sarah said it feels warm." The photo showed my mother wrapped in a heavy coat on the balcony, her face deathly pale under the sunlight.

The comments below were always the same: "Helena, you're better than a real daughter!" "Such a kindhearted soul!" "Sarah is so blessed to have you." I liked the posts.

That weekend, I came home early from work. When I opened the front door, the house was dead silent.

My mother was sitting alone in her wheelchair, facing the balcony, completely motionless. Helena was nowhere to be seen. "Mom?" No response. I walked over and knelt in front of her.

Her eyes were completely hollow, staring blankly at a spot on the wall. Her pupils were dilated. "Mom, it's me." Her eyes slowly rolled toward my face.

She stared blankly for a few seconds. Then, her right hand moved. Slowly, like seaweed drifting underwater. She stretched out her finger and touched my palm.

Slowly, she began to trace words on my hand. One line. Another line. Then a cross. TIE. She was spelling the word "TIE." The blood rushed to my head.

She started writing a second word. She paused several times, her finger shaking violently. I stared down at my palm, my muscles tense, not daring to move.

Suddenly, the front door clicked. "Ethan? You're home early today?" Helena walked in carrying groceries, smiling warmly. My mother's hand snapped back instantly.

It was a reflex too fast for an eightyyearold. She shrank back into her wheelchair, clutching the hem of her shirt, her eyes glued to the floor.

In a split second, she regressed back into a helpless, senile old woman. Helena put down the groceries and walked over. "Sarah, did you miss your son? Look, he's home!

Are you happy?" My mother said nothing. "See? She's confused again," Helena said to me with a sigh. "It comes in waves.

She was chatting with me right before I left to buy groceries, and now she doesn't even recognize you." Chatting? My mother hadn't spoken a coherent word in three days.

Who was she chatting with? But I didn't ask. Helena was already kneeling beside her, tenderly changing her shoes into warm slippers while humming a soft tune.

That night, as I was working late in my study, I heard a noise from my mother's room. I pushed the door open.

Helena was sitting by the bed, holding a cup of medicine. "Oh, she just woke up. Perfect time for her meds." My mother kept her head turned, her mouth clamped shut. "Come on, Sarah.

Be a good girl. Take your medicine so you can sleep," Helena’s voice was dripping with artificial sweetness. My mother turned her face away.

Helena grabbed her jaw, forcing her face back. "Sarah, if you don't take your meds, your sickness will get worse.

You don't want to be a burden to your son, do you?" Tears streamed down my mother's face, soaking into her white hair. Her mouth opened.

The pill was shoved in, followed by a splash of water. Helena wiped her hands and stood up. Only then did she notice me standing at the door. "Oh, Ethan!

You scared me." "She didn't want to take it." "But she has to. Dr. Jenkins said we can't stop the Olanzapine abruptly, or the symptoms will bounce back worse than before.

You don't want her screaming in the middle of the night, do you?" I remained silent. Helena walked over to me, lowering her voice. "Ethan, let's be honest.

Your mom's condition is worse than you think. This stage... I've seen it in other seniors I cared for. Once she gets past this phase, she'll be fine.

If you're really worried, why don't I take her to Dr. Jenkins tomorrow for a proper checkup?" "No need." I closed the door and walked back to my study.

I sat down and opened my palm. The words my mother traced were gone, but the ghost of her fingernail scraping against my skin remained. TIE.

She wrote "TIE." I whipped out my phone and texted Leo: "Can you look into that Dr. Arthur Jenkins for me?" Three minutes later, he replied: "Send me his full name."

"Dr. Arthur Jenkins. He had a medical license, but it was revoked in 2019 for illegally prescribing controlled substances.

Now he runs a shady online consultation gig on a sketchy app." Leo sent the information over, followed by a voice note. "The guy is a fraud.

He was kicked out of the hospital system.

Is this the 'expert' your caregiver recommended?" I stared at the screen, my fingers turning cold. "Are you sure?" "The registration details are all here. See for yourself.

The online platform he uses is registered under four shell companies that have already been dissolved. They don't even have a medical license.

The prescription he gave you has zero legal validity." My throat tightened. But then a thought crossed my mind—maybe Helena didn't know. Maybe she was scammed too.

She was just a middleaged caregiver. How could she verify a doctor's credentials? When I got home after work, I didn't enter right away. I stood in the hallway for a long time.

Finally, I pushed the door open. "Helena, about Dr. Jenkins..." "Yes?" "His medical license was revoked years ago.

Did you know that?" The rag in Helena’s hand froze for a split second. Just one second. "What? Really? But I've known him for years.

He always seemed so professional." She put down the rag, her face a picture of pure shock. "Ethan, who told you this?" "A friend looked him up for me." "Oh, there must be some mistake.

He's verified on several apps, and his ratings are so high. Let me call and ask him..." She reached for her phone, but I stopped her. "Don't bother.

We're not using his prescriptions anymore. I'll take my mom to the hospital myself." Helena’s expression shifted. It was tiny.

The corners of her mouth twitched downward by a millimeter before her warm smile snapped back. "Of course, Ethan. Whatever you think is best. I'm so sorry.

I should have been more careful." "As long as my mom is safe, that's all that matters." That night, I fed my mother her medication myself.

I only gave her the hospital's original prescription and hid the bottle of Olanzapine. The next day, my mother's eyes seemed a little clearer.

Not by much, but enough for her to slowly and accurately turn her head to follow my movements around the room.

She looked like someone drowning, barely managing to keep her nose above water. On the third day, I made a decision. I bought a spy camera.

It was tiny, the size of a fingernail, with WiFi capability to stream live footage to my phone.

While Helena was out grocery shopping, I hid it on top of the TV cable box in the living room, masking it with a few books.

My heart hammered against my ribs the entire time, making me feel like a criminal. I'm not spying. I'm protecting my mom, I repeated to myself.

That afternoon at the office, I opened the app. Helena pushed my mother into the living room, turned on the TV, and draped a blanket over her.

Then she went to the kitchen, occasionally coming out to check on her. Everything looked completely normal. The next day, normal. The third day, still normal.

On the fourth day, the screen went black. The app showed: "Device Offline." Panic seized me.

I called Helena immediately. "Helena, is the WiFi down at home?" "No, it's working fine. My phone is connected. Why, Ethan?" My heart sank. "Nothing.

Just checking." When I got home, I inspected the camera. It was still there. But a thin layer of plastic wrap had been stretched over the lens.

It was transparent, almost invisible unless you looked closely. The stream was nothing but a blurry smudge. I crouched in front of the TV, my back drenched in cold sweat.

Who did this? "Ethan, what are you doing down there?" Helena walked over, holding a plate of fruit.

I stood up, forcing my voice to remain calm. "Helena, did you see the small camera behind the TV?" She tilted her head, looking utterly confused. "A camera?

What camera?" "I put it there." Two seconds of dead silence. A bizarre expression washed over Helena’s face. It wasn't panic.

It was... deep offense. "Ethan, are you spying on me?" "It's not about spying on you.

I just worry about my mom when I'm not here—" "You don't trust me with your mother?" Her voice rose, her eyes instantly welling with tears. "For over a month, I've bathed her, fed her, cleaned her up, and lost sleep to soothe her when she screamed.

I've done everything. And you spy on me?" My mouth opened, but no words came out. "Ethan, I understand you're her son. But if you don't trust me, fine! Go watch the footage!

See if I've ever mistreated her!" She slammed herself onto the sofa, clutching her chest. "I've been in this industry for eight years, and no family has ever treated me like this.

I'm... my heart is broken." Looking at her tears, I panicked. "Helena, I'm sorry.

I didn't mean it like that—" "If you don't trust me, hire someone else!" She wiped her tears and stood up. "I'll pack my things and leave today.

I don't even want my pay for this week. Let's see if anyone else has the patience I have for her!" "No, wait—" I quickly held her back. "Helena, please don't be angry.

It was my fault. I was just being paranoid." "Then take that camera down." I looked at her red, tearful eyes. I took the camera down.

That night, Leo called, and I told him what happened. He was silent for a long time. "Her first reaction to finding the camera wasn't to explain—it was to play the victim.

Ethan, think about it." "Stop analyzing it, Leo. She was genuinely hurt." "Is she hurt, or is she just a brilliant actress?

Can't you tell the difference?" "I can tell." Leo sighed. "Fine. But can your mother tell the difference while she's at her mercy?" I hung up.

Late that night, I heard a sound from my mother's room. It wasn't crying. It was a dull, rhythmic thud. Like something blunt repeatedly hitting the wall.