Birthmark Bethany

(Note: Just so nobody gets the wrong idea, let me just say that overall my childhood was happy, my siblings were no meaner than anybody else’s (and no meaner than I was to them!), and my mom wasn’t perpetually mad at me.)

According to my mother, I was born a perfect, beautiful little baby, with no unsightly marks to speak of. Within about 4 or 5 months, what looked like a bruise appeared on my jawline below my right ear.  Over the next few months, the “bruise” darkened, and became brown and raised. As time went on, it grew bigger, darker, and hairier. It became obvious that it was not a bruise, but a mole, or what I knew as my birthmark.

Here I am at 9 months old. You can just barely see a small mark under my ear.

I remember growing up always feeling self-conscious. My birthmark was hideous, a fact my four older siblings didn’t hesitate to remind me of. One sister gave me the nickname of Birthmark Bethany, later shortened to Birthany, and finally to Bertha. Looking back on old photos, I can rarely see it. As obvious as I always thought it was, the mole was kind of hidden most of the time. There are, however, many pictures from my youth where I am turned slightly to “my good side”, and others where my hair is strategically placed to cover it.

I always got annoyed when my mom wanted to pull my hair back. She loved doing cute hairstyles, like French braids and curled ponytails. That made it harder for me to tuck my hair between my jaw and shoulder to try and cover my birthmark. I would always try anyway.

Here I am, a little bit older, trying to hide my birthmark from the camera (and Santa Claus!) by putting my braid between my jaw and shoulder. I remember doing this ALL the time.

In second grade, my parents decided it was time to get the mole removed. The whole family was excited, especially me. My mom took me to see a doctor I’d never met, and told me he would numb the side of my face, cut the birthmark off, and stitch me up. Like a second grader would be able to hold still and keep their cool through all of that! But I felt confident, and we went into the room where the procedure would be done.

Pretty soon, in walked the doctor, a man with a beard (terror!), and a Hawaiian shirt! No lab coat or even scrubs. I immediately didn’t trust him. He started coming towards me, with his hand stretched out towards my jawline. In my mind, he was going to put the topical anesthetic on right then. (Ha! I was so naïve I didn’t realize he actually planned to use a needle!) I started crying and screaming and trying to get away. My mom tried to explain to me that he just wanted to touch it. I didn’t believe her, and yelled and bawled, full of terror.

The next thing I knew, we were out in the parking lot. I didn’t have to go through with it after all! My mom was yelling at me, saying that she still had to pay for the appointment even though the doctor didn’t do anything. She said I must be too young to handle it, and that I’d have to wait at least another year. That’s when reality sunk in. I hadn’t known that I was actually losing my chance to get rid of the source of so much ridicule and embarrassment. I begged for another chance. I said I’d be good, and tried to get my mom to take me back in. It was too late.

When we walked in the door of our house, I was greeted with excited family members wanting to see the new me. My sister Heather, just 14 months older than I am, held a round double-layer chocolate cake sprinkled with coconut – a replica of my birthmark. On the top was written in frosting “Goodbye, Spike”, a name some of my siblings had affectionately given the hairy growth. I took one look at the cake and ran up to my room crying, leaving my mom to angrily explain what had happened. I can’t remember if I ever got a piece of the cake.

Life continued as usual with school every day and church every Sunday. We always sat behind the Malones, a family my oldest sister, Sarah, later married into. The father was an ear, nose, and throat doctor, and my mom often solicited free advice from him at church for one of her many children. He didn’t seem to mind, and was actually the one who volunteered to remove the birthmark for me when he heard of my situation. He said the best solution would be to put me to sleep completely, which sounded great to me.

By this time, I was in third grade. My mom took me to the hospital, and I knew this time to be on my best behavior. I don’t even remember the IV needle being an issue, probably because I knew that’s the last thing I would feel until it was all over. (General anesthesia is something I’ve really come to appreciate and even enjoy as I’ve gone through different medical procedures since.) They later tested the mole for cancer, and it came back negative.

When I woke up, my head and face felt weird. I soon realized that my whole head was wrapped in netting, which was used to keep the gauze close against the wound. My mom took me home, where as soon as I could eat I was treated to chicken Mcnuggets. No cake this time – I guess they just couldn’t be sure I’d go through with it.

I don’t remember the recovery being much of anything. Dr. Malone had said the scar would probably heal completely to where you couldn’t see it at all. That hasn’t been the case. I can’t count how many times people have asked me if I burned myself with a curling iron. Even now, twenty years later, you can see a faint scar. You have to know where to look, but it’s there. The scar has never bothered me though. When people would ask about it, I would say, “I got a mole removed in third grade”, and move on. It wasn’t anything that needed to be hidden now that the horrible growth was gone.

I can honestly say having my birthmark removed was one of the biggest self-confidence boosters of my life (a possible contender being the 40 pounds I lost as a missionary in the Philippines).  The mole was such a part of who I was as a child, and not in a good way. I was constantly aware of it, and always trying to hide it. It seems like something so cosmetic and superficial, but having the mole removed was one of the greatest gifts my parents ever gave me: the gift of confidence and heightened self esteem. 

Thank you, Mom and Dad. 

Thank you, Dr. Malone.

 Farewell, Spike.

Here’s a very blurry picture where you can see my birthmark quite clearly. I guess I was too young to care about covering it up. Plus, my hair was too short! (Bonus: Heather in the background, and baby Haley next to me!)