The bolt cutters and the damage done...

If ever there was a symbol of the passing of my vibrant carefree days as a city girl, then the removal of my navel piercing as a heavily pregnant woman now living in countryVictoria was it.

I don’t even remember exactly what year it was now when I had it put in, though I think it was the Easter holidays, and it was a slightly dodgy tattoo parlour in Merimbula. Actually it probably wasn’t that dodgy – there’s just something about tattoo parlours themselves that makes me think they’re slightly dodgy. There wasn’t any precise reason for getting my belly button pierced other than I wanted to prove to myself that I was brave enough to do it. Some people go bungy jumping, I went the piercing. The pain was sudden and brutal but it was over in a flash.

Now that it is gone I’m having a hard time even looking at my navel because it looks so wrong without the ring there. I have some vague recollection of a Twilight Zone episode where a woman’s mouth or nose or something disappeared right from her face, and this is what my belly looks like to me now – just a couple of little holes where something vital used to be.

By around 26 weeks of pregnancy, my belly stretched just so far where having a ring in the middle of it all was starting to place some rather uncomfortable constraints on my skin. Taking it out became my priority and an unexpected problem. Anthony helpfully suggested that a pair of bolt cutters would do the job. Yeah right.

I went to my beauty therapist first because my eyes were quite shut when I had the thing put in and I had no idea how it opened to get it out again. I was told pliers would be required which their piercer carried with him and he would not be back in the shop for another few days. It was a simple matter, they explained, of loosening up the ball and unscrewing it on its thread till enough of a gap opened up to be able to pull the ring out. I was a bit dubious about this as I had already had a go at unscrewing the ball and was pretty sure that it was spinning quite freely without actually revealing anything like a gap. I had a doctor’s appointment that afternoon and he concurred that the ball was spinning without unscrewing but was unable to offer any other suggestions as to how I could get it out. I went to another beauty therapist but they had nothing but raised eyebrows for me.

It seemed that after so many years, the thread had either worn smooth or had filled up with gunk. Either way, I was now a desperate woman.

I went home, took a deep breath, and picked up the phone. ‘Honey, could you please bring the bolt cutters home?’

Faced with the prospect of actually having to deliver on what had originally been a harmless joke, Anthony began to feel nervous. The bolt cutters were a little over a metre in length, and were rusty as at the business end of things. In some vague attempt at sterilisation I boiled the tips in a saucepan on the stove. I tried to hold the ring still while Anthony got a grip, but any vague movement of the metal against my skin was absolute agony and made me make noises that made both him feel even more nervous. When I finally let him squeeze the blades, the ball popped off mercifully easily along with a small section of ring and we were able to pull it out.

The feeling afterwards, was not quite the relief I had expected, but rather like when I first had it put in. I felt an acute awareness of a hole through my skin, a complete intolerance to clothing against my belly, and yes, an undeniable need to have a little lie down.

I have a photo to remember it by though. To remind me that I was young, silly and flat-ish stomached once, and as leverage for my future teenage son or daughter when they decide to take their own seaside holiday trip to the local tattoo parlour.