The Adventures of Ear, Queen of Cellulitis (or, 'If Only My Doctor Looked Like Him')

I am sitting at my desk in my lovely apartment, in which I have been happily ensconced for the better part of a year.

In the last few weeks, however, I have also taken up part-time residence in other digs, not nearly as salubrious as these.

Yes, I have become a semi-permanent fixture in my local doctor's office, making at seven visits in the past 21 days.

It started with a bad bout of tonsillitis. A bunch of razorblades found their way into my throat, and did some vigorous twerking until I was feverish and sore. Eventually the party spread to my left ear, which become infected as well, as it doesn't like to be left out.

It took two courses of anti-biotics to get the fun under control, and a good couple of visits to the doctor.

Next up, just days later, was some, er, 'women's business'. I will not burden you with the details, but it did require an initial visit, a second visit for a pap smear, and then a follow up visit to the GP to discuss the results, so that was another three visits right there.

This is not my doctor. If it was, I would be delighted to experience regular bouts of cellulitis.

Following that was the case of the cellulitic ear. And no, to the friend who knows who she is, I do not have cellulite in my ear (and no, it was not that funny). My left ear, having recovered from the infection, decided that it needed more attention, and developed a strange lump on the back. I went to the doctor again, and she decided that it was an infection in the internal stitch left over from my, um, minor surgery over a year ago. She advised me to make an appointment with the (um, plastic) surgeon to get it removed. I saw the plastic surgeon and he scheduled me in for another month's time. In the meantime, the lump got infected, turned bright red and swollen, my entire jaw started to ache, and I rushed back to the GP to be diagnosed with cellulitis and put on yet another course of anti-biotics. Yep. Two more visits within a week. And with that, we hit the magic seven. I know, right? My favourite number!

Happily, the cellulitis has now eased somewhat. Unhappily, I am going in this afternoon to have the stitch removed in the chair. Happily, the surgeon has given me some Emla cream to smear on my ear to dull the pain of a needle going into my sore ear. Unhappily, Emla cream does fuck all and you will hear the screams all around Australia.

And when I get home, I am officially renting out a room in my doctor's surgery. They have a nice bathroom and old magazines and jelly beans, and I'm there every three days anyway so it will save a lot of time.

When was the last time you went to the doctor?

Betrayal... And Forgiveness.....And Olives...

I love my friend Lana. I do. I cherish her friendship, I cherish her unconditional support of me, and I cherish the fact that she nearly always pays for drinks when we go out. (I tried last night, I really, truly did, but she beat me to it. She's sneaky that way.)

However, last night Lana betrayed me in a fundamental way, which left me shocked and desperate. Even now, 16 hours later, I am struggling to reconcile my love for her with her extreme disloyalty. It is hard. I hope one day I will get through this.

We met for a drink at a wine bar near our kids' school, as the kids were busy at a school disco. (For the record, my five year old can dance like nobody's business. The child has moves on her never seen by human eyes before.) We drank a jug of sangria, and split a bowl of olives, and caught up on each other's lives. It was heaven.

I didn't notice anything was wrong. I thought that we were as close as ever. We went back to school and I collected my kids, and chatted and laughed with some of the other parents. All was fine. Or at least I thought it was.

(mouth shown not author's own)

But then I got in my car, and looked in the rear view mirror. And I saw it. As clear as daylight, only black, which is not at all like daylight, but rather like night - very, very black night.

A big piece of olive stuck between my two top teeth.

I was devastated. And horrified. Because Lana, my dear, dear friend Lana, had not informed me that I had olive between my teeth.

I felt sad. I felt betrayed. I felt hurt. And then I sent her a message asking how she could have done such a thing.

"Sorry," she replied. "I was trying to find your ears."

And just like that, I forgave her.

Me In A Turban, Or "Hurtie Ears"

It is rather unseemly to complain about pain that one inflicts upon oneself. It's probably not reasonable to expect sympathy when one has undergone a purely elective procedure for something as minor as an ear.

But I am not complaining about my pain, nor am I asking for sympathy. I am simply outlining, for those of you interested, what it feels like to become a character from Star Wars.

As many of you know, I underwent surgery on Monday to correct my one-and-a-half sticky-out ears. (Obviously, I have two ears, and both were operated on, but only one was very sticky-out. The other was moderately sticky-out, but it's easier to achieve symmetry if they do both.)

I suffered from an affliction known colloquially as 'bat ear', or, in medical terms, as 'bat ear'. (Yep, sometimes Latin just doesn't cut it.). The ridge of my ear was lacking a crease, causing it to stick out at a 90 degree angle instead of lying flat against my head.

The operation, known as 'otoplasty', involved creating a crease. The surgeon made an incision in the back of each ear, scored the ridge of each ear with a special instrument (as opposed to, say, a spoon), inserted permanent stiches to hold the ears in place, and then dissolving stiches to re-connect the skin.

He then slapped a massive piece of gauze on each ear, wrapped a bandage the size of a turban around my head, fastened it with approximately twelve metres of surgical tape, and sent me on my way.

In the long term, the result will be two beautiful flat ears.

In the short term, the result is two hurtie ears, a new taste for pain medication, and a rather startling resemblance to Princess Leia.

I have never before noticed the similarity

The surgeon reassured me that the pain wouldn't be too bad, and that I could probably make do with just paracetamol. And I totally could, provided that I washed it down with a couple of Digesics, a nice strong sleeping pill, and a slug or two of gin.

The sensations themselves have varied from day to day. The first night it felt as though my earlobes had been sliced off, and two red-hot pokers inserted in my earholes. The second day my entire ears ached, and it pained me to open my mouth. The third day, the pain localised to the site of the incision, and the bandage began to feel very heavy. The fourth day, the ache began to subside, bar the occasional shooting pain in various locations throughout my aural region. Today, day five, I am frantically itchy, and quite desperate to remove the massive turban.

Last night I felt a mild panic attack arise, as the claustrophobia of the bandage began to overwhelm me. I had wild fantasies of attacking the turban with a pair of (safety) scissors, ripping it off dramatically, and scratching my new ears. Perhaps, I began wondering in fear, there weren't even ears under there at all, but two transplanted fingers attached to each side of my head. Perhaps the surgeon had removed my ears and put them back on backwards, as a joke. Or perhaps he'd tattooed them with purple spots and bejazzled them with sequins, just to lift my spirits.

I still don't know. The bandages come off on Monday and all will be revealed. Until then, I am trying desperately not to scratch, and to breathe through the crazed desire to return from planet Star Wars.

Thank you all for your support, and my ears and I will see you soon. Or at least hear you soon.

From a much flatter distance.

Hooray!

So I'm Doing It....

As some of you will know, in recent times I have been contemplating my sticky-out ear. Actually, I've been contemplating my sticky-out ear forever. It is something that has bothered me for as long as I can remember. It bugs me when I look in the mirror. It bothers me when it pokes out from under my hair in photos. And it drives me crazy in strong wind when I fear I might actually take off and fly (but in circles, because only one of my ears sticks out, so I have no chance of going in a straight line).

And now, I have finally decided to do something about it. I am forty-four. It is now or never. And I want to know what life feels like without a crazy ear. I want to know what it feels like to be able to wear my hair back without looking like a lopsided Minnie Mouse. Most importantly, I guess, I want to like my ears.

Since writing my previous post and talking to friends, I've been amazed at the support for my decision - at least from women. "If it bothers you and you can fix it, then do it!" they say. Several friends have admitted to having their own minor procedures done. I had no idea how many of my friends have had nose jobs, Botox, teeth capping, and their own bat ears corrected.

Men, interestingly enough, don't seem to understand. "Your ears have never bothered me," said my husband. "I've never even noticed your big ear," said a male friend. But then I've always maintained that men see the entire picture - face, body, boobs, four limbs - whereas we women are all about detail. 

Only one female friend of mine questioned my decision (and yes, hon, I'm talking about you). "The whole quest for perfection bothers me," she said. "I love imperfections in people. I love your ear."

But I'm not trying to be perfect. I'm far from perfect. If I'd wanted to be perfect then I'd be fixing a lot more than my ear. I'd be getting the veins on my legs stripped. I'd be getting a boob job. A tummy tuck. A face lift. That special fraxel laser treatment on my skin to remove all the pigmentation. And Japanese ionic straightening to permanently correct my crazy frizzy hair.

But I don't want any of that. I don't want to be perfect. I just want to have a nice normal ear. So I'm going in tomorrow for a day procedure and I'm saying goodbye to my sticky-out ear forever. It's a strange feeling. But bizarrely exciting.

So thank you for your support in anticipation. Photos shall come soon. And my ear and I shall see you on the other side.          

When Is It Too Late?

When I was born, I was born with flat ears. My mum had sticky-out ears (still does) and was thrilled to note that her first-born daughter did not suffer from the same affliction.

But somehow, fairly soon into my life as a human person, my ears sprung out from their position neatly against my head, and assumed the shape they have held ever since - my right ear at around 45 degrees from my scalp, and my freakish left ear more like 85.

Can't really miss it

My sticky-out ear has bothered me for as long as I can remember. When my hair is down, it is well disguised, but when my hair is up, or pushed away from my face, it is out there boldly on display. When I look at photos, I inevitably catch a glimpse of my ear poking through my curls, or jutting out jauntily to wave at the world. 

I have frequently told my mother off for not getting my ears pinned back when I was a child.

"Well, do it now!" she tells me cheerily (which is a deflection from her own culpability if ever I heard one).

And I think about doing it now. I scrape my hair back from my head and hold my ears back with my fingers and marvel at how different - how much more sophisticated - I look. Or I stick them back with blu-tac and parade around for my husband.

"You really do look different," he told me the other day. "Maybe you should go and get them pinned back."

"Really?" I asked incredulously. My husband has always claimed that my ears don't bother him. 

"Sure," he said. "And you can get your boobs done while you're at it!" He laughed and I rolled my eyes. Perhaps he wasn't the best one to ask.

But truly, I'm in a dilemma. Not, as you might think, because I'm in two minds about the actual procedure. Ear correction surgery, or otoplasty, is very, very low risk, and can even be performed without general anaesthetic. It's not dangerous, it's not particularly expensive, and there is virtually no recovery period. There is nothing stopping me from having it tomorrow.

What bothers me is a different dilemma. And it's my age. 

I am forty-four years old and have got to this stage in my life with one remarkably sticky-out ear. And whilst a part of me longs to experience life with a nice flat ear, a huge part of me feels that I'm too old. I've only got forty or fifty years left on this earth - why bother altering my appearance at this advanced age? How will it change my life? And even if it will change my life for the better, is there any point when said life is already half way over?

But then that makes me sad. Sad because I'm not opening myself up to the possibility of change just because of my age (even if that change is just to the shape of my ear). Sad because I feel like I've given up the right to shake up my life because it's half way over. And - more significantly - if I feel that way about my ear, then surely that translates to other areas of my life as well: my relationships, my career, the way I think and operate as a person.

So this post is not really about plastic surgery. It is about age, and new beginnings, and when it is time to accept our lot in life, and when it is still okay to change and to grow. Is it ever too late to turn things around? Is it ever too late to pursue a dream?

I'm still no closer to sorting out the ear dilemma. I don't know whether I'll go through life like this, or whether I'll turn around one day and get the surgery. But it's certainly got me thinking about life in general, and about aging in particular. 

You?

Worst. Pic. Ever. Now with ACTUAL PHOTO.

YUP.

So today I took the worst photograph of myself in five years. Yes, it was time for my license renewal, that most hideous of chores for anyone who doesn't like seeing themselves portrayed on a small oblong card as a demented, ice-addicted criminal.

My old license expired yesterday, and I was happy to see it go. Even though it was taken five years ago, when I was still in my thirties, the picture makes me look like a fifty four year old - a fifty four year old with a bad case of scurvy who hasn't slept in about a year.

I knew that license photos are never attractive, but I felt that with a bit of preparation and a lot of makeup, I could beat the odds and produce one that, at the very least, wouldn't make my daughter cry when she stumbled upon it in my purse.

So this morning I carefully applied some eyeshadow and lipstick, and used about three litres of concealer on the bags under my eyes. I washed my hair and put in lots of 'product' to make it bouncy and curly, and made sure that it was draped artfully over my sticky-out ear (and the other ear too, just to be symmetrical).

And off I went to the RTA.



I filled out my forms and paid the bill, and then the lovely young man behind the counter told me not to smile.

Well, let me tell you this. I don't respond well to being told not to smile.

I began to giggle. Then I began to laugh. Then I tried to smother my laughter by biting my tongue. Then I took a deep breath and pursed my lips to calm myself down....

And that's when the photo was taken.

It is terrible. Just awful. I look like a middle aged virgin schoolteacher who lost her fiance in the war, and has never recovered from the pain. Even worse, my hair is flat on the top and the bags under my eyes are dark grey.

So the moral of the story is, don't even bother trying. License photos are there to hurt you and amuse everyone else.

And if you can't hack that bitter truth, go buy yourself a pushbike and leave the car at home. Which is what I am thinking of doing in another five years time.

Why My Husband Has To Go

I love my husband. I do. Okay, so The Architect and I have a tumultuous relationship, and I *may* have once thrown an orange in his general direction, but we have been together for a hundred years and I never expected that we would part.

But something has changed. Another woman has come between us. A girl, really. A pretty white girl, with blue eyes and ears that are - believe it or not - even bigger than mine. She is here with us, every single day. We can't go on forever like this. So a choice will have to be made.

Now, obviously, my husband wants the girl to go. He has been here longer, and feels like he shouldn't have to leave his own family. But I'm in two minds. For one thing, she is sooooo cute. For another thing, the kids are really attached to her, and while they totally love their dad too, it seems just cruel to break their hearts.

Artist's impression of The Architect leaving home (except The Architect wears black)

And it's not Bun Bun's fault that she makes The Architect sneeze. After all, Spunky (RIP) didn't do so. And Pretzel, Bun Bun's cage-mate, is not allergenic at all. How were we to know that the flat-eared bunnies are a different breed altogether, and have the capacity to make a grown man expel his very soul from his nostrils night after night after night?

My husband thinks it is best to send Bun Bun away now, before the kids learn to love her even more. But Bun Bun is part of the family now. She is another child. And you can't send your child away. What's more, Bun Bun doesn't have the capacity to reason, and won't understand why she is being rejected from her home. She could be permanently scarred. Or at least miss that bloody great hole she's dug under the cupboard.

The Architect, on the other hand, can reason and understand. He will know that it's nothing personal, that it is just a clash of allergans, and that someone has to go. He will regroup, and move on with his life. And we will visit him, of course, after we've all changed our clothes and had showers to remove any last bits of fluff from our bodies.

Still, he is fighting to stay, and it's going to get ugly. The only solution may be for the kids and rabbits and I to leave, and let The Architect stay in the house. He designed it, after all.

It will need a very good cleaning, though. That rabbit fur is EVERYWHERE.

Proper, Funny Writing?

On the weekend I attended the Problogger conference in Melbourne. I was one of the speakers, on a panel with Allison Tait and Valerie Khoo, and I discussed the ways in which I use my blog to promote myself as a writer. A 'proper' writer. A writer of columns and articles and books and online posts. A funny writer, but a proper writer nonetheless. A proper, funny writer. If you know what I mean.

Hopefully, then, there will be many new readers clicking on to my blog today for the first time, waiting with baited breath to read, for the first time, a stunning example of my proper, funny writing.

And what a surprise they're going to get.

Because I don't have a piece of proper, funny writing for you today. Instead, I have a diagram.

So for those of you new to this proper, funny blog, let me explain:

A few weeks ago, I despaired of ever being able to stop biting my nails. And I called upon my loyal blog readers to help me in my quest, by offering to name a particular nail for me, and providing me - and said nails - with emotional support. I was overwhelmed by the outpouring of love expressed (and the sheer ridiculousness of the monikers chosen). Now, finally, I have chosen my ten names, and can reveal them to the world. (Sadly, I can't reveal the nails themselves, as they are still rather short and stubby - particularly Al, who had a bit of an accident with a rough edge and a tooth - but they will get there soon.)

Hence the diagram.

To those whose names adorn these typing fingers, thank you. I will look after them well. To those who missed out on naming a nail, fear not. There are still my toes.

And to those who came here looking for a proper, funny read, I apologise. Please come again soon. I promise that next time I will be hilarious. And if not, you can name my left ear. It's huge!


In other news, the winner of the Where's Wally costume (notasponsoredpost) is Jenny M, because I love the idea of her son being dressed as Wally for his Buck's Night. Jenny, please email me!!!

Kerri's DIY Repair of Sticky-Out Ear

Yesterday I was inspired by the brilliant vlog of my gorgeous-as-she-is friend Eden. And it gave me a idea that I had to see through.

I decided to have an otoplasty - surgery to pin back a sticky-out ear.

Those of who who know me know that I have one sticky-out ear, which makes the left side of my head look like I could take off like Dumbo the elephant in a gust of strong wind. The other side, however, is completely normal. So I'm stuck between Dumbo on the left and Human on the right. I'm in some kind of limbo. Dumbo-limbo, if you will. And it's absurd.

Not my left ear. But very similar.
 

 

Sadly, though, I can't afford plastic surgery right now, due to annoying things like the mortgage and needing food.

So I thought I'd do it myself.

I do have some experience with invasive self-surgery, having pierced my ears twice with a safety pin. One time the ear got infected and closed up, but that's still a 50% success rate.

Still, when I tried to make the incision, I realise I couldn't see the back of my ear because my eyes are actually at the front of my face. So I had to satisfy my desire for perfection by sticking my ear to my head with a lump of blue tac. It looked very nice, and gave me a very flat ear, but kept springing up again within five or six seconds, and proved a little cumbersome to maintain.

So for now, I'll just plod along in Dumbo-limbo. But if blu-tac wishes to sponsor me, I'll certainly be receptive to that.