by Michelle Potter Artist - Energy Worker - Wayshower | Aug 11, 2024 | Art as Therapy, Blogs
Let’s rewind to wear it all began.
I was only 6 years old when my father died and I remember those early weeks quite distinctly. Dad had bowel cancer and from diagnosis to his passing was about 4 months. One day he got sick and the next day he was gone.
Everyone bought me gifts. Passing mourners that entered our home brought me something nice, shiny and new. I was never a spoilt child and these sorts of presents were normally reserved for Christmas and birthdays. I was supposed to be sad wasn’t I? How could I possibly be sad when I had all these wonderful new toys to distract me. It was a very emotionally confusing time for me.
The morning of the funeral, I recall my grandparents pulling up the driveway quite early. I was excited because Grandad was here and it wasn’t even the weekend. He was all dressed up in his suit and tie. My Nan never got out of the car, and my excitement was short-lived as I also saw the neighbour, who always ate the best biscuits when she babysat, trundling up behind. Then Mum said goodbye and left. I remember watching them leave in Grandad’s car and feeling terrible and confused about the whole thing.
I cannot recall them telling me they were burying my Dad that day because that would be something I would definitely remember. I was just annoyed and confused that they had gone somewhere without me, and I was left in the house with the lady from around the corner who would tie her kid to the clothesline by his child harness.
Mum wanted me to remember Dad the way he was, not laying in a box, and as a parent we all have to make terribly difficult decisions. But I never had a chance to say goodbye. I never even had a chance to grieve. I carried that grief with me for over 30 years until I lost my second pregnancy at 11 weeks. The impact of well-meaning decisions around my father’s death influenced so much of my life. It wasn’t until I had children of my own that I realised how important it was that, no matter how hard, little humans also need a space to grieve.
As adults, we do everything possible to protect our children from the hurts and pain of the world, but it catches up. It’s not something that ever goes away until we are faced to deal with it differently. I spent many many years grieving the loss of my father instead of praising the effects and hard work of my mother. It was always about the loss for me. The Dad who didn’t come to special Father’s Day events. The Dad that couldn’t walk me down the aisle. The Dad I couldn’t hug and confide in because, well, he was dead. All I had for many years was a plague in a crematorium and no closure.
The void this created was a severe sense of lack. My mother became fiercely independent, and to her credit, we never went without. I may have grown up on second-hand clothes and Vegemite sandwiches, but we never went hungry, we always had clothes, and we always had a roof over our heads.
Losing a father figure at a very young age changed the course of my life and it hasn’t been all bad. Pain can bring out the worst and the best in some people. Not all people that are hurting hurt people.
Art has taught me how to express emotion productively and positively. Take my latest ‘Art with Heart’ cards as an example. I needed a constructive way to view my situation when I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I knew exactly what the negative self-talk was telling me, and sometimes, it was dressed up with pretty clothes and lipstick. This is why the negative side of these cards looks attractive and colourful, not dark and foreboding.
It’s a tough journey taking a good hard look in the mirror and recognising everything that needs to change within ourselves. The ego is designed to protect us and sometimes it takes a hard life lesson or two to knock us back on the right path.
Cancer turns you inside out. It affects everything and everyone around you. I believe my stomach cancer was my massive initiation into my life’s purpose. My more recent cancer diagnosis was to just make sure I’d learned my lessons. There are still lessons as part of this process, but I’m pretty confident I’m done.
I got it loud and clear.
Boundaries, non judgment, forgiveness.
Done done done.
Please, Universe, let me be done. I’ll be quite happy to shine right up until my number is up.
by Michelle Potter Artist - Energy Worker - Wayshower | Jun 21, 2024 | Art as Therapy, Artwork, Blogs, Cancer, Life Lessons, Pancreatic Cancer
I didn’t specifically mean to go down a pathway of art as therapy and a form of healing; rather, it found me.
It was 2012, and I was still in recovery from my stomach cancer. My life as I knew it had been turned on its head. In a parallel universe, I’m sure I was enjoying motherhood and socialising, and my hopes of finding myself again included rejoining the workforce. This timeline, however, looked very different.
I started back up again at a weekly women’s circle, and my circle mentor suggested that I try pastel drawing. Up until now, I had only ever played with abstract acrylic art, and I dabbled with some cartoons. My mum was the artist in the family, not me!
Side note: In truth, when I first started Circle in August 2009, my interests were mainly focused on developing my psychic abilities. As it turned out, this was not a class about chakras, crystals or the paranormal. Most weeks were spent peeling off layer after layer of belief and societal patterns, fears, religious dogma and lifetimes of karmic dross. I learned a lot about myself during these years, and it had its time and place in my life, but by August 2017, I was grateful when the spotlight didn’t fall on me on a Monday night. There was a moment when I knew in my heart that it was time to step out of Circle. It had been brewing for a while, and one thing I knew for sure was I shouldn’t feel worse when I left than when I entered. It had become a toxic environment for me. It is an interesting reflection knowing that Circle itself became something that I needed to let go of.
Lynn Whitty (Shiona as she is known in the Spirit Art World) became my art mentor for many years after 2012. I remember getting my first packet of mungyo soft pastels and driving myself to her then home in Springvale (southeast of Melbourne). She had the most amazing acrylic painting, which had been an Archibald entry, hung at her front door. I stood there in awe and thought to myself, ‘ One day, I want to be able to paint like that.’
Lyn is a bright and colourful character. Her modern hairstyle, funky glasses, and laugh make her stand out in any crowd. The room she taught from had a room full of easels. It was warm and cozy, with years of pastel dust staining the carpet. I felt instantly comfortable. As several other ladies came in, chatting, mingling and settling down with cups of tea, Lynn asked what I wanted to get out of class. I stated “I can’t draw animals and I can’t draw people.” Boy, was I wrong!
My first drawing was of a man in a green cape with a wolf. It was pretty two dimensional, and his eyes were a little close set, but considering I had never used soft pastels before, I was really proud of what I had achieved.
Something shifted in me during that first lesson. I realised I was capable of much more than I had imagined. Getting through stomach cancer and surgery had mostly been out of my control. I had to hand my life over to other people. I had to trust that the doctors, surgeons and specialists did what they were trained to do.
There were many lessons in there for me, including that of letting go and being more vulnerable than I had ever been in my life. This ‘creating space’, however, was a place that was just mine. A place where my inner child could learn and play.
My inner child! Of course, I had been neglecting her. I had all this grown-up, responsible stuff to do. From the age of 6, when I lost my father to bowel cancer, I became the responsible one. My childhood had been cruelly snatched out from under me, and now, with the help of my cancer, I had a chance to embrace her again.
This time, she could be encouraged, nurtured and supported, and I realised it was my job to give her the time and effort she needed to flourish. I was starting to really understand the meaning of gratitude and abundance. My vulnerability had opened up possibilities. It created a place for growth and transformation, so that is what I chose.
If I could get through stage 3 cancer, then my life, as I knew it, had already jumped tracks. What did I have to lose? The worst that could happen is that I could fail dismally. But how was I ever going to know unless I gave it a go?
My Wednesday mornings became my ritualistic art day. I set up a small easel at home in our family room and I worked at my craft every single day. This was the beginning of my art as therapy.
by Michelle Potter Artist - Energy Worker - Wayshower | Jan 5, 2023 | Blogs, Life Lessons, Updates
“I am re-braving after a difficult stage that un-braved me.” – Jeff Brown.
2022 was indeed ‘The Tower’ for me.
January 2022, things were starting to open up, people had already started planning for a mask free future, but my hesitation had all but turned me into a paranoid skeptic who saw how ugly and selfish the world had become. I had already distanced myself from certain social media platforms and as much as much as my reflection started to resemble Shrek in his swamp, I reveled in the luxury of just being able to put my phone down to alleviate any drama that was going on in the outside world. It was generally nice not having to people.
School began, my eldest heading into year 12 and my youngest being able to attend his first year since commencing high school. Just getting accustomed to having the house back to myself felt weirdly quiet. I can’t say I missed the smell of the air fryer or the fridge door constantly opening and closing, but we had worked out daily routines so we were not constantly getting under each other’s feet. Getting reacquainted with myself took some time but I missed the kids and the company. I knew that life, as we all knew it, had changed and just as I had had an enormous amount to time to think and contemplate the last 2 years, I was not prepared for what was to come.
On January 18, 2022, I went in for my yearly colonoscopy. This is part of my cancer screening and is something that I have done since 2011. My histopathology came back showing the removal of a tubulovillous adenoma with extensive high-grade dysplasia, and lots of other medical terminology that no one ever wants to see on a report. I cannot tell you how much my heart sank. My specialist of 11 years was now all but retired to Queensland and his office admin were under strict instructions not to contact him under any circumstances (unless it was his week on in Melbourne) so getting hold of the right people to give this the urgency I felt it needed was nothing short of challenging. Getting past the frustration of pouring out my history to medical receptionists and being able to speak to ‘someone’ that would call me back sent me into meltdown.
Living with a genetic predisposition to gastrointestinal cancers is not something you can fully appreciate unless you are living it. Its not like a cough or cold that you ‘get through’ and then your life becomes healthy again. Living with this constant threat of another ‘C’ is my life. Fatigue and fall out from multiple surgeries is a daily grind. I have to prioritize everything, and I mean everything. From what I can do in a day, to who and what I give my energy and time to. What I eat on a daily basis can affect my hydration levels, my bowels, my ability to complete tasks and how much I can do physically. AND let me tell you, no matter how much spiritual work I do and how positive I am, shit things happen. Shit does not discriminate. It doesn’t care how kind or generous you are. It doesn’t matter if you give your last $20 to the homeless guy outside Woollies or how many self-help books you have beside your bed. Shit doesn’t care how much money you have in the bank or how many friends you have. Shit just happens.
Two gastroenterologists, my oncologist and a colorectal specialist later I was given the option for a partial colectomy or close monitoring (quarterly colonoscopies). It was explained to me that the partial colectomy involved the removal of ¾ of my bowel with a 12-18 month recovery and the possibility of a temporary or permanent colostomy bag. The thought of having to endure the same recovery as my gastrectomy was more than I could cope with so against my oncologists wishes I went with the latter.
This experience cracked me open to my very core. My mental health suffered on a scale I have never experienced. For the first time ever, I knew I could no longer do this on my own. I sought medical intervention for my anxiety and depression and by May 2022 I was speaking with a psychologist and on medication. It almost seems insane that I waited until I was right on the edge of self-destruction before I took these steps. My belief was always ‘I can do this on my own.’ Surely with all the self-help and spiritual guidance I had for support, seeking medical intervention seemed weak. How can I be a Reiki Master, a Lightworker Practioner, lead women in Circle, know all that I know and need help for my mental health? It felt like I had failed. That by doing this I was ‘a fake’ and clearly not spiritual enough to heal this myself. Pushing past all these belief systems was challenging. I accepted that being vulnerable was not a sign a weakness and even if we have all the answers we need inside, sometimes its a hell of alot easier if someone is holding your hand as you walk through it.
Not all that long ago I listened to a podcast from the Spiritual Tradie and he spoke to someone regarding our ‘Spiritual tool shed.’ That we have all been living in a state of overwhelm for such an extended period of time that even if we feel we had all the spiritual resources at our fingertips, some of us forgot where we put the key to the shed. This was me in a nutshell. I was thrown back 11 years when I was just a babe on my spiritual journey. While everyone else went on re-planning events that were delayed through the pandemic, I was being thrown back into a space of the unknown, of poking and prodding, tests upon tests, hospital and specialists’ appointments. So, not only was it was imperative I stay virus free but I had to navigate what this potentially meant for me and my family. And I cried and cried and cried.
2022 was also a huge year of acceptance. Finally facing my health issues head on and really accepting my limitations, which grieved me more than I had imagined it would. Letting my grey hair grow out (for a time) and seeing the 100% me. It’s a weird feeling being a woman in her 50’s, it truly is a bit of a void. It’s like a light switch turns on and you start the see the world differently. You certainly may not feel ‘old’, but your reflection lets you know otherwise. I remember my mum telling me that when women hit a certain age they suddenly become invisible. We sort of slink into the background. We let go of the last strands of youth but have to learn to reshape that into something new. Something inside us stirs and if we give ourselves permission, we can make own rules. Simply nod your head and leave the youth to make their own mistakes as you start to weave a new life, your way. No ‘bullshit.’ But this to is something we need time to adjust to, and for a while anyway we feel suspended in that space ‘in-between’.
Last year un-braved me so much that I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to face what may lay ahead. I am proud that I resourced myself, learned how to take better care of me and I am happy to report I am in a much better place now. If you are having a tough time, know that there is help out there if you seek it, and if you don’t know where to start, go and speak to your GP or a qualified medical practitioner. It is okay to be a complete mess and to have no idea where your life is going, no matter how old you are. The Tower always brings extreme emotional turmoil, chaos and scary adjustments. If The Tower has entered your life, then it’s time to rethink your foundations, open yourself up to a clearer spiritual path and a more truthful existence and remember you don’t have to do it alone.
Today is not forever. <3
Michelle
Image Credit https://unsplash.com/@sammiechaffin
by Michelle Potter Artist - Energy Worker - Wayshower | Dec 11, 2015 | Cancer, Life Lessons, Stomach Cancer
Late last week I felt a thickening of my left breast tissue. A small but noticeable lumpy bit that just managed to get more painful the more I poked and played with it. I made an unscheduled visit to my doctor, followed by a lengthy mammogram, and ultrasound. At least some relief was given to me at the appointment and although nothing was found in the left breast a fibroadenoma was found in the right. This will require some monitoring due to my history and genetics as Lynch Syndrome also carries a slighter higher risk of breast cancer. Yet another reminder that no matter how positive I am, how healthy I live, how self aware and #ultraspiritual I feel there are just some things that I cannot control. It doesn’t seem to matter if I’m a good person , a bad person or something in between. Sometimes shit just happens.
Having gone through an enormous life changing experience in 2011 I know I have grown and changed in so many ways. My family is the most precious gift I have. Watching my children grow up is such a blessing that many of my cancer friends will never get. Every year that ticks past, and every photo that I can get with Santa fills my heart with so much gratitude. I have focused and continue to develop in my craft and work at it every day. My art has been at the forefront of my ability to heal, help and express myself. I also devote my time to helping others to connect and give a platform to so many out there that also live life without a stomach. I have used the last 4 ½ years positively, productively and creatively in the hope to better understand myself and what I have to offer the world.
My ability to discern which relationships I allow into my life is extremely important and anything I feel is toxic just has to go, no question. When you are sitting in a doctors office waiting for test results you are not thinking about what the mums at school are saying, or what sale you might be missing out on. You are worried about your kids, your husband, yourself . You worry about how you and your family are going to cope. How you are going to stay positive? How you are going to get through this? You ponder on the what ifs, no matter how hard you try not to. The anxiety and anticipation of an outcome you cannot control is the scariest thing you can possibly imagine. It shakes you to your very core and nothing else matters to you accept those that are close to your heart.
I feel like I am continuously being grounded and reminded of what matters most. As much as I can appreciate the experience from a spiritual awakening sense, from a human perspective it is absolutely exhausting. And this isn’t just a little bump in the road, I have to live like this for the rest of my life. I have been reminded this week that no matter how much I put the cancer behind me there is always, always going to be a percentage of it on my mind. Every lump, every blood test, every scan brings another wave of anxiety that unless you have experienced it, you can never possibly understand it.
“ Why wear a dress if it doesn’t fit you anymore? Of course you might put up with it for a while but you will eventually get to a point where you think “I need to let that go that, it doesn’t fit me anymore”. Nothing has changed with the dress, it’s exactly the same as when you first purchased it. Its you that’s changed.
If you were once a part of my life and are no longer then it’s nothing personal. Seriously, it’s got nothing to do with you, it just means that you are no longer a reflection of me. Why wear a dress if it doesn’t fit you anymore? Of course you might put up with it for a while but you will eventually get to a point where you think “I need to let that go that, it doesn’t fit me anymore”. Nothing has changed with the dress, it’s exactly the same as when you first purchased it. It’s you that’s changed. We all have our light bulb moments, the ones that put our lives into perspective. Well, my life seems to be one massive light bulb! Your perspective on life is based on your own personal experiences, your truth, your belief systems and I respect that, but it also means my experiences have evolved me to a point where I have outgrown you. It doesn’t mean I think I am better than you, it just means that I am very selective about who I allow into my life and the energy they bring. I truly hope you never understand, but if one day you do then you might appreciate just a taste of what its like walking in my shoes.
by Michelle Potter Artist - Energy Worker - Wayshower | Sep 8, 2015 | Cancer, Life Lessons, Stomach Cancer
I remember getting alot of adult attention after my father’s death. A steady stream of people flowed through our family home bearing food and gifts to cheer us up. I guess it worked because I cannot remember being a grief stricken child. At school my art design was chosen for the Christmas card competition (and it wasn’t very good!). I was given leading roles at my ballet school and my teachers were nice, caring and generally overcompensating especially around the father’s day celebrations. I was never given a real opportunity to grieve the loss because everyone around me always wanted to make me happy.
The earliest recollection of my father being sick was visiting him in hospital. I remember that visit because I buried my head in his overnight bag so I didn’t have to watch the nurse change his drip. He thought it was extremely funny, although my fear of needles lasted for the next 27 years! One day I sat on his knee and looked him right in the eyes. ‘Dad’ I asked, “Are you going to die?’ My father had been diagnosed with terminal bowel cancer. How do you tell a 6 year old the truth without breaking her little heart, so of course my Dad lied ‘No Princess, I’m not going to die’. When he passed in 1978 at the age of 36, I was 6 years old and my little baby brother was 4.
The magic in life just seemed to slowly disappear. Quite suddenly as everyone got back to their own lives things got hard. I not only lost my Dad that day, I lost a part of my mum as well. As I grew older I became angry and resentful that my father had not only died but lied. I was never able to let go of the hurt although my adult logic knew why he done what he had done. I guess you can never really appreciate what someone is experiencing until you experience it yourself.
When I was 39 years old with young children of my own I was diagnosed with stage 3 stomach cancer. The frightened little girl, who stuck her head in the overnight bag resurfaced. I was given an opportunity to see my father’s diagnosis through my own eyes and I was finally able to grieve the loss of my father. I would look into my babies eyes at night and feel the overwhelming sadness and heartache my father must have felt knowing he was not going to see us grow up. I cherished every moment with my family, not knowing if I was heading into the same terminal diagnosis. The time I was able to sit on the floor and play with my boys became ever so precious. My husband became my career, my strength and support. He took over the running of the house to the organizing of everyone’s life. I only had one job, to get myself well so I could give my boys the opportunity to have what I never had growing up, two parents. My surgery was successful and after months of chemo, radiation and healing I was given a second chance at life.
Four years after my surgery and 37 years of my father resting up at the crematorium my mother decided it was time to scatter his ashes. I think we all would love one more day with a loved one that has passed and I feel so blessed at having had the opportunity. Even though I always know he is with me in spirit, I had a physical connection and something to hold onto for one more day. His urn lay next to me while I watched TV, I held him in my bed and cried. I told him how much I love and missed him, and he spent his last physical night watching over me from my bedside table. I got to hold him in my hands again as my mum and I scattered his ashes in the sea and I now keep his plaque in my garden. I felt life come full circle and I was finally able to put some closure on the funeral I did not attend as a child.
My experience with cancer allowed me to open up and release the part of me that needed to let go. I still feel sadness even while I re-read this blog. I don’t think that will ever go away but the anger and the sense of being robbed of my childhood no longer has a place in my heart.
Michelle Lykokapis
Stomach Cancer Survivor
