My Grandson Moved In To Help With My Alzheimer’s. Then I Found A Folder Labeled ‘gold Clips’ Containing Videos Of Me Crying Over My Dead Wife. How Do I Get Him Out?
Farming Disease for Content
I started scrolling through the videos. There were hundreds of them. Me shuffling around in my bathrobe at 6:00 in the morning, hair standing up, muttering to myself. Me standing in the kitchen holding a pan, looking confused. Me calling Tyler by his father’s name, then correcting myself. Me telling the same story about fixing a carburetor in 1973, word for word, in two different videos posted a day apart.
Each video had thousands of comments—tens of thousands.
“This is so wholesome.”
“You’re such a good grandson.”
“My grandpa has dementia too. This hits different.”
“The way he looks at you breaks my heart.”
“I’m literally crying watching this.”
But mixed in were other comments.
“Bruh, why does he keep forgetting lmao.”
“Alzheimer’s be like Alt + Delete.”
“Old people are so funny when they’re confused.”
Tyler had responded to many of the comments, playing the part of the devoted grandson.
“Thanks for the support fam. It’s tough but we’re managing day by day.” Heart emoji. Praying hands emoji.
I spent the rest of that night watching every video he’d posted—6 months’ worth. Some were just 15-second clips of me looking disoriented; others were longer, edited compilations of my confused moments set to melancholy piano music. One video titled “Gramps Forgot Grandma Passed Away Again” had 4 million views. 4 million people had watched me realize, for what I thought was the first time that morning, that my wife was dead.
I felt sick—not the kind of sick where you vomit, but the kind that sits in your stomach like a stone and makes your whole body feel wrong. This was my grandson. This was Tyler, who I’d taught to ride a bike, who I’d taken fishing every summer until he turned 16 and got too cool for it. This was the little boy who used to fall asleep on my lap during long car rides.
He’d been farming my disease for content, for money, for internet fame. The ads—I’d seen ads between some of the videos. Tyler was monetizing this. His profile had a link: “Support Gramps and Me on Patreon.” I clicked it. 273 patrons. Tiers ranged from $5 a month to $50 a month for exclusive behind-the-scenes content and direct messaging with me about caregiving tips. He was making thousands, maybe tens of thousands, off my deteriorating brain.
The Investigation
I didn’t go downstairs that morning when I heard Tyler moving around. I stayed in my room with the door locked. He knocked around 8:30.
“Grandpa, you okay in there? I’m making eggs.”
“I’m fine,” I called back. “Not hungry. I’m going to rest.”
“You sure? You should eat something.”
I said, “I’m fine.”
Silence, then: “Okay. I’ll save you some. Let me know if you need anything.”
His footsteps retreated down the hall. I heard him on his phone in the kitchen, voice low, laughing at something. I imagined him filming my closed door, adding text overlay: “Gramps is having a rough morning, send prayers.”
I needed help, but who? Rachel was in Seattle, worked long hours as a corporate attorney. She’d probably known about the videos, maybe even approved them. Tyler’s father, my son-in-law Dennis, had divorced Rachel 5 years back and moved to California; we barely spoke. My friends from the school where I’d worked had mostly moved away or increasingly passed away. Eleanor’s sister Margaret lived in Florida and we’d never been close.
I was alone. That’s what Tyler had counted on. That’s what made me the perfect target.
But then I remembered Diane. Diane Wallace was my home health care nurse, sent by my insurance company to check on me twice a week after the diagnosis. She’d been coming for about 3 months: mid-40s, efficient but kind, the type of person who didn’t treat you like a child just because you had memory problems. She’d talked about her own parents, both gone now, with the kind of gentle sadness that told me she understood what it meant to watch someone disappear piece by piece. Her next visit was scheduled for Thursday, 2 days away.
I could hold on for 2 days. I could pretend nothing was wrong for 2 days. That was my plan anyway.
On Tuesday, Tyler knocked on my door around lunchtime.
“Grandpa, I’m going out for a couple hours. Meeting a friend. You need anything before I go?”
“No,” I said through the door. “I’m fine.”
“Okay. Love you.”
Those last two words hit me like a physical thing. “Love you,” as if love was filming someone’s worst moments and broadcasting them to millions. As if love was profiting off deterioration and confusion. As if love was hiding cameras in bathrooms.
I waited until I heard his car pull out of the driveway, then I went downstairs. His room was unlocked. I felt guilty going in, which was absurd given what he’d been doing, but decades of respecting privacy don’t disappear just because someone’s betrayed you.
His laptop was closed on his desk. I opened it. Password protected, of course. I tried a few obvious combinations—his birthday, his mother’s name—nothing worked. But next to the laptop was a notebook, the kind with a marble patterned cover. I flipped it open.
Pages and pages of notes. Video ideas: “Gramps forgets where he is,” “Gramps calls me dad again,” “Gramps tries to drive (staged, make sure car keys are hidden but accessible).” Posting schedules, engagement metrics, sponsor outreach lists. There was an email address for someone called Madison, titled “Manager.” He had a manager. This wasn’t casual; this was a business.
