Roland Rocchiccioli has been entertaining television and theatre audiences for over 40 years.

Nothing has had so great an impact on my life as being a carer for my late mother, Beria. She was 96 when she died.

Over the 40 plus years of working in the theatre, I have been involved with a number of major successful productions, but this unique experience outshines them all; in particular, the weeks leading up to Beria’s death.

She brought me in, and I took her out. Taking someone on their final journey is the most intimate thing you can do, and after that, you can never be ordinary again.

Curiously, I found the end less difficult than the daily caring routine. When it came time for Beria to surrender her life force, it happened with a minimum of fuss, and, according to her doctor, she went in peace. He could tell from the look on her face.

While I was uncertain at the time, I am pleased I took photographs. For all the world, she appears to be napping, and while those last images of her are tinged with sadness, it is a comfort to know she departed this world in the way we hoped.

As a consequence of that experience, I have written a stage play – Who Cares? – based on my, and two other carers’, experiences. I have also incorporated some of the privileged material which came to me from being involved with Carers Victoria.

I have to confess, compared to some, my caring role was a walk in the park – however tough it seemed at the time.

Beria was with me for 10 years, although when she arrived she was fit and healthy and there was no thought of what was in store. Beria had charged through life at double speed and doing everything to perfection. In my naivety I presumed it would be thus, forever.

We both found her final incapacitation trying. It is two years since Beria died, and I still feel the huge void she left in my life.

Until the final months of her life, I never thought of myself as Beria’s carer. Our living arrangements – with me making all the decisions – seemed perfectly normal, and made for an easy and ordered existence, and I knew Beria was safe.

It was only when I took her to the doctor with what I suspected was a hernia and came home with cancer, that our lives were turned upside-down. Suddenly, I found myself caught up in a drama, the like of which I had never experienced, and whose self-generating force rendered me impotent to alter the script.

The palliative care nurses from Cabrini in Malvern were wonderful, but adamant. Never once did they give me a false glimmer of hope. Always, when I went in search of a reprieve for Beria, they said the same thing, “Roland, Beria has cancer and she is going to die.”

I have thought about it long and hard, but I am not sure I ever accepted that truth. Up until the final moment, when I saw the imperceptible movement of her head, and the gentle, shallow breathing come to an end, I thought she would rally and have more time.

Whatever advice doctors, social workers and counsellors might proffer, nothing prepares you for being a carer, or someone’s death. Only when you get to the coal face do you realise the devil is in the detail.

When people say to me of the caring experience: “I can imagine what it was like”, I stop them – politely, but firmly: “No you can’t. You don’t have any idea.”

Just recently, a woman in her early 40s stopped me in the supermarket. Earlier, she had been listening to my Sunday morning radio program. We began to talk and within moments she was telling me about caring for her husband with Huntington’s disease.

The blatant detail was of the most intimate nature and, previously, would have shocked me to the core. Listening to her, it all seemed perfectly normal and there were no signs of embarrassment on either part.

I have come to realise there was a purpose – a greater plan in being allowed to care for Beria. While it is light years removed from my life in the theatre and television, as each day passes I recognise and appreciate the wisdom which has come to me as a result of having been so blessed.

I am convinced Beria’s legacy is the stage play Who Cares? which never would have seen the light of day without the practical experience. Such dialogue comes not from the imagination.

Caring for Beria sent me broke. I have to admit living on a carer’s payment, which, at that time was several hundred dollars less than the minimum wage, was a lesson in humility. Were it not for several friends regularly paying grocery bills and delivering enormous food hampers, I am not sure how I would have managed.

Thank God I provided Beria with private health insurance which meant I was able to keep her at home and she died with me holding her hand. It was exactly as she wanted. It seems to me an injustice that, in this land of plenty, there are 10 and 11-year-olds who are carers for their parents struggling to juggle the relentless demands of the home and the schoolroom. We would all agree – they deserve better.

One of the most rewarding elements to come out of my caring experience is the humour and the abiding camaraderie. Every carer I meet has an amusing story to tell about a husband, a wife, a child, or a parent – which they tell with such relish – never resentment. There is no question - without that sense of humour one would go mad.

The play Who Cares? is filled with black humour and were it not so funny and true, it might be considered offensive.

There is a levelling component which comes with being a carer. Like teachers and actors who cannot help but ‘talk shop’ when they meet together, so too do carers. While some weeping is not unusual, it is almost always coupled with laughter and genuine concern.

While it may, on those bleak days when you want to run screaming into wide blue yonder, seem like more than you can stand, there is no question – we have a richness of experience which others cannot even begin to imagine.

I am proud to call myself a carer, and I salute each and every one of you!