Fifty Years Without a Name: My Journey With Microtia
‘You’ve got microtia,’ she said.
Three simple words that changed everything.
I was 50 years old and had lived my entire life without a right ear or ear canal, never knowing why – or even that there was a name for it.
No one had ever told me – not my parents, not the doctors and surgeons, not even the specialists I saw throughout childhood.
At nine years old, I was asked if I wanted a real ear or a plastic one, I said a real one.
I had skin grafts and numerous corrective surgeries, including one in my early teens where they took cartilage from my rib to create an ‘ear’ for me and an operation on my 25th birthday to enable me to wear glasses without them slipping off.
Still, no one ever said, ‘You have microtia.’
I had just learned to live with it. The way I looked and heard things and assumed it was just me – a bit of a mystery.
When I was growing up, people didn’t talk about visible differences. There weren’t any role models in magazines or on TV. At school, I obviously stood out. My voice was high-pitched, and my left ear had a little tag on it that one of the other boys affectionately called my ‘bell’. The other kids gave me nicknames too, such as ‘One Ear,’ and ‘Squeak,’ and they weren’t as kind as him. But I didn’t dwell on it. I didn’t want to be treated differently, and I wasn’t about to let it hold me back. If anything, it toughened me up. Taught me to get on with things.
In an effort to help me fit in, my parents enrolled me in The Royal Marine Cadets when I was eight. My mum had always kept my hair long so I could hide my little ear, but the cadets didn’t have time for that. It was short back and sides for everyone, and we all had to look and act the same, or we were loudly called out on it.
I know my mum worried about how I’d cope, especially when it came to sport and the rough and tumble of things, as I was constantly in and out of hospital, but I was too stubborn to let my differences stop me. People stared. Kids were curious. Adults didn’t always know how to react. But over time, you learn to shrug it off. Nowadays, adults tend to assume it’s a rugby injury, but it’s my grandson who always makes me smile about it. He sits on my shoulders and plays with my ears, always checking to make sure I still have a ‘little one’.
For the first five decades of my life, though, I just accepted that this was how I was – that I was ‘different.’ I didn’t feel sorry for myself, and I didn’t need sympathy. But walking into a potential client’s living room in 2017 and hearing, ‘Oh! You’ve got microtia. My daughter has it too,’ honestly changed everything.
It was the first time I’d heard the word. The first time I had seen a photo of someone else who had one little ear, just like me.
Suddenly learning that there was a reason why I look the way I do and being able to put a name to it made it feel real in a way I can’t really explain. But more than that, being able to go home and Google ‘microtia’ made me realise that I’m not alone. Far from it, in fact. I found Microtia UK and realised that there’s a whole community of people out there the same as me, who understand.
Every year, 1 in 6,000 babies are born with microtia – with one ear, or sometimes none and impacted hearing. It’s rare, but there are far more of us than I ever imagined. And for those parents trying to understand what it means for their child, Microtia UK is often the first place they turn.
The charity does incredible work – connecting families, raising awareness, providing practical support and information about the many surgeries and hearing aids available. They also help people of all ages feel proud of who they are. But for me, after 50 years of feeling different and slightly apart, they gave me the language to understand a part of myself that I’d never been able to explain before.
So why am I sharing all this now?
Because I finally can – and because it matters.
Life is good, really good, and I have achieved and overcome more than my younger self could ever imagine, both personally and professionally.
But Microtia UK is a small charity that’s often overlooked among the bigger names. Since finding them, I’ve done what I can to support them, and I’m proud to say that my company, ‘Blue Sky CAD Limited’, regularly makes donations to the charity.
As you can see from this photo we’ve just funded some funky orange adult fundraising t-shirts with the charity’s friendly elephant logo on them (as modelled below by Tina Rycroft, the charity’s Non-Executive Director.)
Our company mascot, ‘Teddy’, who you may have seen in photos on our social media or as my contact image, also wears a special charity sweatband.
But, and yes, this is where I ask for your support, they could do so much more with additional donations and sponsorship. I have seen first-hand how every pound really does make a difference, and when I want to make a donation, I’m able to ring up and ask, ‘What do you need?’ I then have the privilege of seeing that donation help the charity take action.
I have a wonderful wife, two amazing daughters, and soon-to-be two grandchildren. I frequently worried, like many parents with physical disabilities do, whether my daughters would be born the same as me. They weren’t, but even if they had been, they would have been perfect. And at a time when so many of us are seen as ‘different’ due to how we look, who we love, what we call ourselves, etc., it just felt like the right time to share my experience.
So, if you or your child has microtia, or any other physical difference, please know this: you’re not alone. It’s okay to look different. It’s okay to be curious, ask questions, and explore your options – or not. Everyone’s journey is their own, and that’s what makes it valid.
For me, sharing my story is about making sure others feel seen – and reminding them that difference is something to be embraced, not hidden.
If you’ve made it this far, thank you. I’m not usually one to put myself out there like this, but if sharing my story helps just one person feel less alone or gives one parent a sense of hope about their child’s future, then it’s been worth every word. So please, feel free to share this post, pass it on, talk about it. You never know who it might reach – or how much it might mean to them.
Mark
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Mark’s Story
Fifty Years Without a Name: My Journey With Microtia
‘You’ve got microtia,’ she said.
Three simple words that changed everything.
I was 50 years old and had lived my entire life without a right ear or ear canal, never knowing why – or even that there was a name for it.
No one had ever told me – not my parents, not the doctors and surgeons, not even the specialists I saw throughout childhood.
At nine years old, I was asked if I wanted a real ear or a plastic one, I said a real one.
I had skin grafts and numerous corrective surgeries, including one in my early teens where they took cartilage from my rib to create an ‘ear’ for me and an operation on my 25th birthday to enable me to wear glasses without them slipping off.
Still, no one ever said, ‘You have microtia.’
I had just learned to live with it. The way I looked and heard things and assumed it was just me – a bit of a mystery.
When I was growing up, people didn’t talk about visible differences. There weren’t any role models in magazines or on TV. At school, I obviously stood out. My voice was high-pitched, and my left ear had a little tag on it that one of the other boys affectionately called my ‘bell’. The other kids gave me nicknames too, such as ‘One Ear,’ and ‘Squeak,’ and they weren’t as kind as him. But I didn’t dwell on it. I didn’t want to be treated differently, and I wasn’t about to let it hold me back. If anything, it toughened me up. Taught me to get on with things.
In an effort to help me fit in, my parents enrolled me in The Royal Marine Cadets when I was eight. My mum had always kept my hair long so I could hide my little ear, but the cadets didn’t have time for that. It was short back and sides for everyone, and we all had to look and act the same, or we were loudly called out on it.
I know my mum worried about how I’d cope, especially when it came to sport and the rough and tumble of things, as I was constantly in and out of hospital, but I was too stubborn to let my differences stop me. People stared. Kids were curious. Adults didn’t always know how to react. But over time, you learn to shrug it off. Nowadays, adults tend to assume it’s a rugby injury, but it’s my grandson who always makes me smile about it. He sits on my shoulders and plays with my ears, always checking to make sure I still have a ‘little one’.
For the first five decades of my life, though, I just accepted that this was how I was – that I was ‘different.’ I didn’t feel sorry for myself, and I didn’t need sympathy. But walking into a potential client’s living room in 2017 and hearing, ‘Oh! You’ve got microtia. My daughter has it too,’ honestly changed everything.
It was the first time I’d heard the word. The first time I had seen a photo of someone else who had one little ear, just like me.
Suddenly learning that there was a reason why I look the way I do and being able to put a name to it made it feel real in a way I can’t really explain. But more than that, being able to go home and Google ‘microtia’ made me realise that I’m not alone. Far from it, in fact. I found Microtia UK and realised that there’s a whole community of people out there the same as me, who understand.
Every year, 1 in 6,000 babies are born with microtia – with one ear, or sometimes none and impacted hearing. It’s rare, but there are far more of us than I ever imagined. And for those parents trying to understand what it means for their child, Microtia UK is often the first place they turn.
The charity does incredible work – connecting families, raising awareness, providing practical support and information about the many surgeries and hearing aids available. They also help people of all ages feel proud of who they are. But for me, after 50 years of feeling different and slightly apart, they gave me the language to understand a part of myself that I’d never been able to explain before.
So why am I sharing all this now?
Because I finally can – and because it matters.
Life is good, really good, and I have achieved and overcome more than my younger self could ever imagine, both personally and professionally.
But Microtia UK is a small charity that’s often overlooked among the bigger names. Since finding them, I’ve done what I can to support them, and I’m proud to say that my company, ‘Blue Sky CAD Limited’, regularly makes donations to the charity.
As you can see from this photo we’ve just funded some funky orange adult fundraising t-shirts with the charity’s friendly elephant logo on them (as modelled below by Tina Rycroft, the charity’s Non-Executive Director.)
Our company mascot, ‘Teddy’, who you may have seen in photos on our social media or as my contact image, also wears a special charity sweatband.
But, and yes, this is where I ask for your support, they could do so much more with additional donations and sponsorship. I have seen first-hand how every pound really does make a difference, and when I want to make a donation, I’m able to ring up and ask, ‘What do you need?’ I then have the privilege of seeing that donation help the charity take action.
So, if you, as a fellow business owner, want to find out more, here’s a link to their fundraising page. (https://www.microtiauk.org/fundraising/)
And secondly,
I have a wonderful wife, two amazing daughters, and soon-to-be two grandchildren. I frequently worried, like many parents with physical disabilities do, whether my daughters would be born the same as me. They weren’t, but even if they had been, they would have been perfect. And at a time when so many of us are seen as ‘different’ due to how we look, who we love, what we call ourselves, etc., it just felt like the right time to share my experience.
So, if you or your child has microtia, or any other physical difference, please know this: you’re not alone. It’s okay to look different. It’s okay to be curious, ask questions, and explore your options – or not. Everyone’s journey is their own, and that’s what makes it valid.
For me, sharing my story is about making sure others feel seen – and reminding them that difference is something to be embraced, not hidden.
If you’ve made it this far, thank you. I’m not usually one to put myself out there like this, but if sharing my story helps just one person feel less alone or gives one parent a sense of hope about their child’s future, then it’s been worth every word. So please, feel free to share this post, pass it on, talk about it. You never know who it might reach – or how much it might mean to them.
Mark