I was born with no ears
‘Surgeons made holes for my ears in my skull, and created an ear drum
and a canal for my left ear, giving me hearing that is 65-70% of the
average person’s’
About four years ago, I cut my hair short for the first time in years. My hair was receding and I felt it was time to embrace my follicular destiny. But it also meant revealing my ears.
I was born with just ear lobes where my ears should have been. I had inner ears on both sides, but the right side was underdeveloped. My right jawbone was about half the size of its counterpart, giving me an uneven jawline. These are all conditions that can occur in utero; doctors don’t know why. The technical terms for these craniofacial conditions are bilateral microtia, atresia, hemifacial microsomia and hypoplasia of the right condyle. The chances of all of these occurring at once is about one in 100,000.
I could barely hear at birth, but at three months I was given a bone-conduction hearing aid band that allowed sound vibrations to reach the inner ear. My family took me to California from our home in New Jersey to meet a specialist; he went on to perform six of the nine surgeries I had between the ages of five and 12, giving me a pair of ears and later improving my hearing.
Cartilage was removed from my ribs, sculpted into outer ears and put on my head. Amazingly, the cartilage grew with the rest of me, keeping the ears in scale. A hole for my left ear was made in my skull, covered by skin grafts taken from my upper arms and backside. Surgeons also created an ear drum and a canal, giving me hearing in that ear that is 65-70% of the average person’s, boosted further by a hearing aid.
In my right ear I have only 30% hearing, all through bone conduction. I could improve this using a conduction hearing aid, but I chose not to, because it would have involved drilling a bolt into my skull. I now recognise what a miracle these operations are. But at the time, my parents helped me see surgery not as medical procedures but as adventures to look forward to. We travelled to San Francisco and Houston, and went to the zoo, to magic shows and baseball games. Their support and encouragement never let me feel anything other than equal to my peers.
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My teenage years were much harder. Teens are less likely to act on their curiosity and more likely to stare. The same is true with adults, but without the mild ostracism. My confidence plummeted as I entered high school; I became withdrawn and stopped going out. It was during this time that I grew my hair long to avoid unwanted hassle.
Only my wife, whom I started dating at 21, was able to get me to break out of my shell. Her unconditional acceptance of me was, and still is, empowering.
I’m now 29 and I’m used to people asking about my ears. The rise of mixed martial arts has helped: people think I’m a former fighter with cauliflower ear. I’d rather people think I am a bad-ass than pity me, so I let them believe what they want to. I’ve embraced my close-cropped hair, and these days I worry more about my growing bald spot than my unconventional ears.
I’m also used to the small ways my ears affect my daily life. I have little to no sound location, so if a friend yells my name from afar, I have no idea where they’re shouting from. I also have an audio-processing delay, meaning that I too often find myself saying, “What?” to someone, only to know what they said a split-second later. I worry that this makes me appear less intelligent.
There are some hidden benefits: I love to play loud music, and I get away with it thanks to my built-in excuse. When a kid asks me if I’m a cyborg, I confirm it with conviction. And if someone starts to grate, I can turn off my hearing aid. Silence is sometimes sweet.
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