As a carer, I’m not special – but sometimes I need to be reminded how important my role is | Natasha Sholl

When I started watching the Disney + dying program for sex, I was wary that the cancer scenario could strike a little too close to our home, after our teenage son was diagnosed with cancer in 2022.

The series follows Molly (Michelle Williams) who decides to leave her marriage and continue sexual pleasure after having received a diagnosis of cancer from stadium four. And yet, even if it is a difficult watch for obvious reasons, it is not the “cancer stuff” that struck me where it hurts (everywhere); It was the representation of Nikki (Jenny Slate), the best friend of Molly, who takes over as a caregiver when Molly leaves her husband. Nikki loses his job, his relationship, his house, his own mental health. And it is very rare that we see the role of a caregiver highlighted in pop culture in this way.

When I took my son in case of an emergency with strange symptoms, I initially supposed that I will miss a day or two of work. It was over two years ago. My work computer always has an open tab by googling its symptoms and a slack message saying that I would be offline for the rest of the day. I have not returned to the office since. And our owner did what the owners and the owner do (increased our already incredibly high rent) that we had to find affordable and accessible housing in a wheelchair in the middle of a rental crisis while our lives implodged.

What Nikki’s representation does by Slate is to give the caregiver to the value she deserves. We see the duality of care, how it does it imperfectly, but from a place of deep love, no obligation or duty, and yet we also see the form of cracks when it faces the reality of the tasks it must accomplish.

One day in the hospital, I forgot to put my mask by returning inside. One of the very old doctors of our son, who had never seen me from the bridge of my nose, looked at my face, apparently disconcerted and said, looking directly: “You are not Natasha.” It took me a while to realize that there was a disconnection between the way he imagined that I looked like what I looked like without mask. But before you register, there was a strange moment when it looked like a prophecy. I was no longer me. Because that’s what I felt. Many days, while the physical and mental toll gives me an obvious version of my old me, I hear his words echo to me. You are not Natasha.

We treat while leaning in the absurdity of our situation. And although what we have to endure individually and collectively with the family is always too much a given day, there is grace and humor and a ridiculous number of memes. And that’s, I suppose, that’s also what I liked in the relationship of Molly and Nikki. There is sorrow and devastation but also beauty and laughter, and above all, friendship. It is difficult to reconcile that, as parents, we desperately want we can make our son his health, we also feel the very real privilege of the time we spend with him every day that we would not do it otherwise.

My husband and I do not have special qualities that have prepared us for our new roles of caregivers. We are not special. And that’s the point.

There are 3 million caregivers unpaid in Australia. Take care of the brothers and sisters for parents, for friends, for children. Some take care of several people at the same time. Some do so by choice and some have no choice. A little work paid, others not. All are forced to make systems that exist to apparently help chronic and disabled patients, but in fact create obstacles to access to aid and to place more charges for caregivers and people they are dealing with. The investigation into the well-being of caregivers of 2024 revealed that caregivers are left behind in most of the key indicators of well-being, in particular loneliness, psychological distress and financial difficulties. Being a caregiver is not exceptional, although we can do it in exceptional circumstances.

When our son was returned from the hospital for the first time and the reality of his complex medical needs, I joined a Facebook group for caregivers, assuming that I would find some tips and tricks. But instead, every day was a barrage of messages, desperate caregivers requiring help. “I’m in Breaking Point …”, “I don’t know what to do …”, “I can’t continue like that …” It seemed to do all at the time: existing in Breaking Point was part of the description of the position.

There is a post-it note on my laptop placed there by my husband: “Best mom!” He is used to hiding notes in the house that I always find exactly when I need it. “Keep it up!” they say. “You’re doing so well!” I think of the doctor and looking at his face when he said, “You’re not Natasha.” I add another post-it to my laptop. “Remember who you are fucking,” I wrote in a thick black Sharpie.

What we do is impossible. And sometimes, we must see each other reflect to us (in books, on the screen) to remind us that we do this important thing, beautiful and impossible.

• Natasha Sholl is an excited writer and lawyer living in Melbourne. His first book, Found, Wantering was published by Ultimo Press in 2022