Who Takes Care of the Caretaker?

On being a good friend, illness, anger, kindness, and naming my needs

I thought I was on the other side of the flu the last time I posted. Instead, it kept going. Pneumonia. Then an infection from the antibiotics. Then an ear infection. Then more antibiotics. Oh, and motion sickness from the boat trip I took when I thought I was healed enough. You don’t have to feel sorry for me for that one. That one is on me. Beautiful sunsets I paid for physically.

Three full weeks of being sick. Three weeks of my body collapsing in a way it never has before.

So when I was sick and someone said, “At least you do not have cancer,” it landed wrong. Not because they were cruel. They were trying to offer perspective. It landed wrong because caretakers live in a different nervous system. Anyone who has been a caretaker knows this. Often, the caretaker keeps functioning. The patient is allowed to depend.

And then there is this part.

For seven years, my father has had stage four cancer. I have been his caretaker. Doctor’s appointments. Chemo infusions. Medication refills. Seventeen hour surgeries. More than fifteen emergency hospital visits, including multiple sepsis events. It has been almost a full time job, and I have not had a job in years, so I would know. As my stepsister says, my dad has a million lives like a cat, and I have been there to care for all of them.

I also have spent my entire life being a good friend. I give such good friend. I literally had a Tumblr called BFF Productions that somehow turned into this Substack, so this tracks. I liked that about myself. I was proud of it. Maybe too proud. I collected best friends. I loved the intimacy of being there for someone. Over time, I learned to look for balance, but the core never changed.

I show up. I listen. I remember the details, especially the ones you forget. I stay. I am the person people call in a crisis and in anything they decide is a crisis. And let me tell you, people in a crisis cannot determine what a crisis is. But to me, that does not matter. If a friend needs help, I want them to feel safe. I love being someone’s safe person. I love being the emotional caretaker.

You also never have to explain yourself to me. I will bury the bodies with you. Literally. If you kill someone, it is none of my business. It is our business. Also, who wants to explain themselves to someone they love? How exhausting. With me, do not worry about it. You can tell me you hate your husband. You can tell me you think your kids suck. No explanation needed.

Recently, my friend Nicole and I were targeted on Instagram with the idea of the “yellow friend,” the one who brings warmth and steadiness, who shows up without judgment, who becomes a kind of emotional sunlight. I am a forever yellow friend. And thankfully, I have great yellow friends too. Being there for people has always felt natural to me. It shaped how I see myself.

Until it did not.

Getting sick forced me to ask a question I had never really asked before. Who takes care of the caretaker?

Getting sick also forced me into a role I hate. Someone who needs help. I minimized symptoms, which somehow led to maximizing my anger. I did not want to burden anyone. I did not even want to burden myself. I hated that too. Instead, I seethed.

This was the first time I had taken antibiotics, and I learned that as much as they kill the infection, they also kill the good parts of your gut. I joked that I had no gut instinct anymore. The antibiotics wiped it out and replaced it with chaos. I could not even weigh in properly on toxic mom group drama. I was switching sides left and right. I have learned that when I become a mom, I will absolutely write a Substack about moms if they cross me. I cannot help it.

But anger was never part of the plan. But it sure showed up like a wrecking ball. I went from a bad personality to an actually, truly angry personality. Needing people made me angry. Being sick made me angry. The slowness. The dependence. The loss of control. I used to think anger meant I was failing at compassion. Then my body took me out. I could not reframe my way through it. I could not optimize my way out.

The anger has passed, and I am slowly gliding into gratitude. What remained was clarity. I needed support, from myself and from other people. That cracked something open. What hurt more was realizing how unkind I have been to myself for years. That was the real grief.

And along the way, it was hard for me to notice the good parts. Panic has a way of shrinking your vision. But they were there. Friends who checked in, brought cough drops, stayed with me while I spiraled, made me laugh, and watched Landman with me like it was a prescribed treatment plan. I did not clock it at the time, but I see it now. Care does not always feel dramatic. Sometimes it is just someone staying.

Caretaking is not a metaphor. It is logistical and relentless. Paperwork. Waiting rooms. Holding your breath while machines beep. And this week, while I was sick, I realized something that stopped me cold. I am also my own emergency contact, and I do not know how to do that yet.

Being sick forced a question I have avoided. What are my needs? Not preferences. Not optimizations. Needs. My therapist has been working on this with me for months and often asks me to refer to a simple list.

Rest. Gentleness. Kindness. Someone believing me when I say I do not feel okay. I could not outrun those needs. That scared me.

But here is the lesson I am keeping. You can tell the truth without being cruel. You can name your needs without becoming a bitch. Because honestly, who wants to help a bitch? This season is teaching me how to say what I need without self erasure and without swinging the pendulum the other way. Calm. Direct. Human.

I have also used spirituality to stay focused on niceness. I reframed instead of confronted. Forgave before I felt angry. Jumped to compassion before I told the truth. That is spiritual bypassing. You cannot heal what you refuse to name. Anger does not disappear because you are spiritual. It goes underground. It shows up in your body. This week made that impossible to ignore.

If you love a caretaker, do not minimize. Do not praise strength instead of asking how tired they are. But also, yes, praise the strength. Offer specifics. Let them be human.

If you are the caretaker, you are allowed to have needs. You are allowed to name them. You are allowed to ask for help. Self kindness is not indulgence. It is back pay. I do not know who takes care of the caretaker. I only know I cannot be her anymore without being taken care of too. And I am not going back.

Here is what else I learned these last few weeks. Straight women seem more obsessed with Heated Rivalry than gay men. Fiber is the new protein. and everyone is now reading Heart the Lover. Being sick is humbling, but it is also clarifying. And apparently, if you stop long enough, your body will teach you everything you have been avoiding. Also, twist. I am making sourdough right now. It felt like the new me should try again.