This is me
Story of elf origins
*** Trigger warning - contains references to cancer ***
This is me.
Rather this is my ear. It is not a new arrival.
My kids refer to it as my elf ear. When they were little, they thought that speaking into my ear sent secret messages directly to Father Christmas. Being only a few inches above 5 foot AND an elf shaped ear aids with the believability of potential elf-origins.
And this is the photo that my daughter took of me last month. On holiday, together; a week in Skiathos. I love it, except all I can focus on is my ear. The jaggedness. The jarringness of it’s absence. It’s pointy-ness.
Jan 2013 - Sat in the front of my car with my brother, one crisp January morning.
- Urgh. What’s that on the back of your ear?
- What’s what on my ear?
- That black thing on the back of your ear? Better get that checked out. It looks manky.
(Or some words to that effect)
If we’d not caught it; if my brother hadn’t pointed it out, in the way that brother’s do… I may not be alive right now. It was 2013.
I’d like to say I don’t think about it. That it’s over. Done. In the past, and in some ways I don’t. But there other times, usually in the summer, when it colours my every day.
I am suddenly bothered by it, in a way that I typically shrug off in the winter months. Random deformed ear? What ear?
From the front, it’s not so obvious - 2 lobes are visible and the tops of my ears. It’s hard to notice the back and sides of your ears from face-on without additional mirrors, and so I willfully ignore it and pretend it’s not there.
I’ve also discovered that no one mentions it - except 5 year old boys sometimes. I mean, who really knows how to bring something like that up politely? And so it’s like it’s invisible; and to most it probably is. Generally, people are wrapped up in their own day-to-day, with their stories, their lives, thoughts and worries, so maybe no one does really notice?
But then you get photos like this one, and it seems so obvious.
2 weeks later. Fast-tracked NHS medical referral for suspected cancer. Lower ground floor consultants office. Dark, lit with artificial light. I can see feet walking past through slatted windows at the top of the room.
- Ah yes. Well, looking at it, I don’t think it’s anything to be concerned about. Pre-cancerous mole at worst, but we’ll take it off and test it, just in case. You’ll just have a tiny part of your ear missing where we’ve cut into the edge to remove it. Hardly noticeable at all.
I started to wear SPF50 under my makeup. I interrogated the makeup ladies indignately at the counters in Debenhams and John Lewis about the ‘sunscreen’ in their moisturisers, becoming more and more upset. It didn’t add up that their SPF would work ‘all day’ whereas proper suncreams needed reapplying every 2 hours. And how much of this super expensive moisturiser did you actually need to apply if normal suncream required 5ml for your face?
They couldn’t answer, except they did - layering mistruth over mistruth; sales schpiel as fact. I was irate. I asked everyone I could to find to try to make sense of the disparity, but couldn’t unpeel the marketing to reveal truths.
Eventually I gave up. Still have.
I gave up on cosmetics counters completely. I gave up believing the hype on beauty products. I gave up talking about it. There is only so much anger you can carry inside and I needed to let it go.
I educated myself where I could. I learnt that suncreams only last 12 months once opened before they start to degrade. I learnt about the 5* for UVA and which suncreams protected you the most. I hardly ever sit in the sun for long, and if I do, I save it for the late afternoon warmth, and dapples of a gentler sun.
Same consultants office, a month later…
- I have bad news. Turns out it’s actually a stage 1 melanoma. We need to take more of your ear off to ensure that it’s all cut out.
After surgery, I was offered a prosthetic to fit the missing part of my ear. It felt bulky and heavy.
They’d done a marvellous job. Matched it to my other ear. Ensured the skin tone was correct. I had a couple of fittings and they showed me how to wear it, to get it to stay put - like a fancy hair do.
I wore it initially. I felt bare without it. Trying to make myself feel whole again. To fix my brokenness; this unimaginable; the faulty piece.
After only a short while, I gave up on the prosthetic. And years later, finally returned to the short hair that I loved the most, telling myself that it is what it is and I didn’t care. But underneath it all, I do.
I am what I am; scars and all.
I am lucky.
I am lucky it was caught early.
I am lucky that it was only stage one, and it could be cut out.
I am lucky that my brother came for a holiday that winter, because I would have never known that the mole existed otherwise. It was on the back of my ear. I couldn’t see it.
But this past week, however, I’m feeling it’s existence more than ever.
Sitting on a beach last week in Greece. May, not August. Covered in factor 50, a hat, and mostly hiding in the shade. My kids are sick of me telling them to get out of the sun, to put their sunnies and hats on, and whilst you’re at it. here, put on some more suncream.
They’re complaining that with so much SPF50, they’re going to go return home less tanned than when they came. They’ve overheard derogatory comments from fellow sunbathers about the fact that I make them wear UV t-shirts in the hottest parts of the day; and they see the misalignment of my instructions to all the burnt-to-a-crisp fellows on the next bed along.
And I feel sad. Sad that some of the joy of relaxing on a beach on holiday has been taken away. The tension in my chest, the resignation in my heart that I am no longer as carefree as I was, counterbalanced against the perception of everyone else’s relaxed holiday vibes. That even though I love swimming in the sea still, feeling the cool water against my skin on a warm mediterrean day, it’s not the same. There is nervousness and trepidation. How long can I stay in? How long do I dry off in the sun before returning to the shade and reapplying? Timing how long my kids are playing happily in the sea before I call them back.
Yet, I don’t want to stop living.
I don’t want (or my kids) to live in fear of the sun. I love the sun. I love how the heat relaxes parts of my back and shoulder blades that I never knew were tense. I love the feel of the warmth on my skin and the way the sun kisses my forehead and makes my eyes sparkle. I
I know it’s about finding that uneasy balance between living with caution and spoiling the fun. Some days, it’s a battle, and I hear and feel that with all my being.
And so, I come, to the beach.
And breathe, still.
I love my life, and the adventures, and I am glad of my elf ear.
Great piece and I never noticed your ears 🙂 Thanks for writing and sharing your experience and how that influences daily choices
💚