On nights when I can’t sleep I try to find my belly button.
I kick off the sheets, raise my arm, and let my finger fall
to where my belly button is supposed to be. I should be able to stab it in the
dark, considering I’ve stuck my finger in it since I was a tot. But I always
get it wrong.
During my surgery it was relocated, so now I have two belly
buttons; the phantom belly button that once was, and the new belly button that
isn’t where my belly button is supposed to be.
Where is it? |
The truth is I found the whole thing too horrible to think
about. I was already dealing with new breasts, a huge abdominal scar, and the
notion that they were messing around with my nipples. That I could deal with
that. But not the bellybutton.
I’d had two very bad experiences with bellybuttons that
pretty much scarred me for life. The first was my sisters’ high school math teacher.
He had a big beer belly and a belly-button which was clearly visible through
his super tight short-sleeved shirt. Sometimes he’d come to school loaded, and
when he did, there’d be something leaking through his bb.
The second experience was with a small Cuban child. Jim and I were
touring a tobacco farm and were being taken to the farmers ‘house’ by our
guide. As the only guests we were something of a novelty. The little naked boy
ran over to us and it looked for the entire world like he had an uncooked
cocktail sausage sticking out of his stomach.
‘le gustaria llevarlo¿ (Would you like to pick him up)’, asked
our guide.
‘No!’
He was a lovely child, but I had to make sure to keep my
eyes on his face. Jim and I tried to be mature about his minor deformity but our
maturity only lasted until our second mojito when we said things such as ‘what
the heck was that?’ and ‘ick’.
I truly believe that things come in threes and with the fat
math teacher and the Cuban child, - I guess I’m the third. Okay, it’s not that bad. Now that the
scars are healing my button is sort of cute. And it’s only slightly higher than
it used to be. Also, I have a vague idea of how it happened. When my fat was
removed from my tummy the skin had to be stretched, and a hole had to be
punched in the new skin to connect with the old belly button hole. Or something
like that.
One of these days I’m going to find out exactly what
happened in that operating room.
Until then, I’m
still stabbing in the dark. And missing my bellybutton.
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