In July of 2017, a few of my friends were going to get piercings.
It was the summer after my freshman year of college. I hadn’t seen these friends much in the past year, and we tended to do a ton of impulsive, spur-of-the-moment things in high school. While I did miss these random instances of teenage stupidity, I really just wasn’t feeling it this particular day in July. The only piercing shop in our hometown that was open at the time looked pretty sus; I’m not a huge fan of needles, so any piercing or tattoo I get usually requires a minimum of a few weeks to mentally prepare, and I wasn’t even sure what to get pierced.
Still, I decided to go with them, just to offer moral support and for something to do. This was my first mistake; the second was letting them convince me to get a cartilage piercing.
In my defense, the shop looked a lot less sketchy on the inside. All of their various ear piercings had gone well, and I had been wanting to get a more fun ear piercing since they became a big thing around twelve years ago.
Another thought I had: one poke and it was done. Just a few seconds of pain for a really cute piercing. (Remember this.)
And he last thought I had: it would be a great starter piercing. After this, I would have the courage to get even more fun ear piercings. (Remember this, too.)
So, I got it. A lot of nerves, a minor anxiety attack, and a few seconds of pain, and then it was over. I left the shop with forty fewer dollars, a really cute horseshoe ring at the top of my ear, and a smile on my face.
For a few months, all was well. My piercing seemed to heal properly, it didn’t hurt much, and I really liked showing it off. I started dreaming of all the others I could save up for: daiths and rooks and industrials and traguses, oh my!
And then, sometime in the early winter, I noticed a small bump forming on the back of the piercing.
I consulted the same friends I went to get the piercing with, as they all had ears full of metal, and I considered them experts on the subject. All three of them assured me it was just a small keloid and not to worry — just pour a little tea tree oil on it before bed, and it’d be gone by morning.
Only it wasn’t gone by morning. Or the next. Or a month later.
In hindsight, I really should’ve just taken the piercing out at that point. Clearly my body wasn’t reacting well, and if anything, the bump was only getting bigger by the day. But truthfully, I still loved the piercing and definitely didn’t want to have to sit through the poke again. (Remember: I was still thinking that one needle was all I’d have to endure for this one piercing.)
Finally, that next February or so, I went back to the initial piercer and showed him what was happening. He just brushed it off, telling me keloids are super common and to just change the piercing.
Seemed easy enough. With a renewed sense of confidence, I gave this shop more of my money for a shiny new stud and (somehow) shoved it through the tiny hole that was quickly being enveloped by this massive bump. Tea tree oil, ibuprofen, more tea tree oil. But that didn’t work, either.
When I was next home from school and went to see the piercer again, I discovered something really interesting: the shop had shut down on account of “unhealthy conditions.” All trust in this piercer guy flying out the window, and I was more than willing to finally just take the thing out. The bump was getting super noticeable, a little painful, and was just plain annoying. So when I went with my roommate as she got her nose pierced, I casually asked a new (and more qualified it seemed) piercer what he thought. His eyes widened, and he told me he’d never seen a keloid so big. But all I had to do was take the earring out and it would go away in just a month or so.
Finally surrendering, I said goodbye to my cute cartilage piercing, thinking everything would be just fine in a month. (Spoiler alert: everything was not just fine in a month. This is also where it begins to get a bit more graphic, so if you’re not a fan of gross things, I would click away.)
By fall of 2018 — over a whole year after I got the piercing and almost half a year since I took it out — this little bump of mine was clearly here to stay. Not only that, but it was growing. I’d tried every Google technique I could find to get rid of it, too. I called my dermatologist, who told me they couldn’t see me until December. I waited, getting more and more self-conscious of this chickpea-sized bump on my ear by the day. The dermatologist called me the day before my appointment to cancel it. I couldn’t get in again until April.
So fast forward to April of this year. I regret getting this stupid piercing every single day. I’m so mad at my friends for convincing me to pay this piercer in a studio with “unhealthy conditions” to shove a needle through my flesh. I feel people sitting behind me in class staring at it; I see eyes quickly dart to it in conversation, trying to figure out what the heck is wrong with my ear. I have people straight-up ask what’s on my ear, so I have to tell them this full, horrible story. I can’t wear my hair up anymore. All I want is to get it cut off at this point — I don’t even care if I’m left with an ugly scar on my ear or if it hurts worse than the piercing itself. I’m just tired.
I go to the dermatologist. A doctor-in-training takes a look at it, makes a face I’ll never forget, and has to get a real doctor for help. She asks me if I’m prone to keloids — I have no idea, I only have my double lobes and nose pierced and have never had anything like this happen — and then tells me I’ll probably never be able to get another ear piercing in my life because this same thing will happen all over again. Apparently, while the piercer and type of earring is partly to blame, my ear skin just isn’t made for piercings. I really didn’t need to wait seven months for a dermatologist to tell me that.
But she also tells me she can’t really do anything about it, because if they did just remove it, it’d grow back right away. They refer me to the plastic surgery department. The earliest appointment I can get is in June.
June rolls around, and I’m using the microscopic sliver of hope I have left to hope they somehow just get the thing off my ear that very day. But, at this point in the story, do you really think it’d be that easy?
I meet my plastic surgeon, and she tells me they can’t remove it either. The only option is steroid injections once every six weeks “until it might go away.” Might. She also told me the injections usually take at least a year to even show improvements. At this point, I’m about one bad day away from cutting off my entire ear. It’s almost comical.
She uses this torture-device-looking needle to inject five shots of steroids into the bump. (Remember when I said to remember my initial one-and-done approach to the needle? Yeah, good times.) This kind of goes without saying, but it hurt. A lot. I make another appointment to do the same thing next month and leave the office with gauze over my entire ear, an almost unbearable ache that four ibuprofens can’t curb, and a strong hatred for life.
The best part is how much worse the bump got in the few days after the treatment. It swelled to almost double the size, you could visibly see the puncture wounds, and the entire area turned purple. I would include a lovely photo, but trust me, a description is more than enough.
If I was self-conscious before, this was a whole new level. I tried concealer (kept rubbing off), I tried band-aids (looked even stupider), I tried leaving my hair down (the bump was now big enough to show through it). Finally, I gave up. I just waltzed into work the next day, where I had to greet hundreds of people, and showed off my Tim Burton-looking ear, ignoring the second glances and furrowed eyebrows.
I’ve had three treatments since, and while the plastic surgeon keeps saying it looks a little better, I see absolutely no improvement. My last treatment was a week ago, and it’s still purple and swollen. The good news is, I really don’t care all that much anymore. I trust the doctor when she says the treatments are actually working, the people I see regularly all know the story, and I’m really working on not caring what strangers think of me, anyway.
But still, having to pay a thirty-dollar copay every time I have to go into the hospital and get my ear stabbed five times every month isn’t something I can just not think about every day.
Every single day I regret getting that stupid piercing, but it definitely has taught me a lot. Lesson 1: do your research before just going into a random shop and letting them poke holes in your body. Lesson 2: listen to your own body over other peoples’ opinions about what’s happening to your body. Lesson 3: you notice flaws on your body a heck of a lot more than anyone else. It’s not nearly as bad as you think it is.
Today, I’m sad I’ll probably never be able to get another ear piercing again, but my case is a rare example, as shown by experienced piercers and dermatologists telling me they’ve “never seen anything like” the keloid on my ear. I’m just an unlucky person, I guess. I encourage you to go out and get all the piercings you want — get all the ones I myself am dying to get — but just be smart about it. Don’t let your friends talk you into going to a sketchy place, ask questions about the type of earring they’re using, and make sure no one in your family has a history of keloids.
And if you do see a bump forming on our around it, take the freaking earring out right that second.
Image Credit: Women’sHealth