My 30-Year-Old Belly Button Piercing Tried to Kill Me

Some mistakes take their sweet time coming around to bite you in the ass.

In the ’90s, all the baddies were getting their belly buttons pierced. At least, that’s what Marie Claire said last week, reporting on yet another late ’90s/Y2K trend that’s rearing its ugly head once more, along with low-rise jeans and crop tops.

At my high school circa 1993, one of those baddies was playing the youngest sister in our spring production of “Fiddler on the Roof.” I can’t remember if it was Shprintze or Bielke, but one day she was mysteriously missing from after-school rehearsal. Rumor had it, she and a friend had pierced each other’s navels using a safety pin and a bottle of vodka (both to drink and to sanitize the operation, I presume), and now, she was in the ER with a raging infection. 

What a dum-dum, I thought, feeling superior thanks to both my age (I was a junior, she was a sophomore) and my part in the show (I was Hodel, the sister who falls in love with a revolutionary and gets a heartbreaking solo). I’d never do something so idiotic.

And indeed, I didn’t. When I decided that I, too, could up my cool factor with a belly button ring—I already wore chokers and had chunky blonde highlights in my Rachel haircut—I went to a professional piercing studio.

Here’s what I remember: My eyes were squeezed shut, so when the heavily-tattooed, no-nonsense piercer put a clamp on my abdomen, I thought the pinch was the piercing. “That wasn’t so bad,” I started to say, but was cut off by a hot, searing pain that literally took my breath away. I’ve pushed two babies out of my body with no drugs, and I’m telling you, getting my belly button pierced was worse.

The healing process was just as torturous. For weeks, I couldn’t wear anything that might accidentally graze that blue metal ring. That meant my swollen, oozing navel was on display for all to see. Sexy! My first post-piercing date fled the scene when I started crying mid-makeout session. I was too embarrassed to explain that my aching belly button, not my emotions, was the cause of my tears.

A year or so later, my belly button ring no longer hurt, and I no longer thought much about it. So when my then-boyfriend pronounced it “stupid” and volunteered to take it out for me, I let him. (What can I say? I’ve always had a weakness for men who are the worst.) I never put it back in, and I didn’t miss it. To be honest, the whole “bad girl” thing was never really my vibe.  

I wish that were the end of my story. Alas, it is not. Get ready to fast-forward about thirty years—and if you’re reading this while you’re eating, finish up before you go any further. You’ve been warned.

One morning last winter, my belly button, now marked with a small pinprick dot where the ring once was, caught my eye in the mirror as I was getting dressed. Is it a little swollen? I thought, poking at it gingerly. It looked different somehow, and was slightly tender. I frowned at it, remembered all the things on my to-do list, and decided to ignore it. Our bodies do all kinds of weird things in midlife; my belly button had already transformed from an innie to outie after pregnancy—now it was probably doing some new old-person thing. 

As the day wore on, however, my belly button made it clear it would not be ignored. First, it was a steady, insistent pulsing. Then I had to tuck the waistband of my pants down low, as the pulsing became an ache. At some point, I realized that not only was my belly button clearly very swollen, it was bright red, and the skin between my piercing scars was stretched taut and shiny. Normally, I couldn’t even see the scars from both holes; one should be tucked underneath, inside my belly button. What was happening?

I went into the bathroom, rummaged around under the sink, and procured the necessary items for a small home surgery: rubbing alcohol, Q-tips, safety pin. (Safety pin! Forty-eight years old and I’m as big a dum-dum as little Shprintze in 1993! Or Bielke! Whichever!) I scrubbed my hands and steeled myself.

Turned out, I didn’t need the safety pin. As soon as I pressed on the swollen ridge that had formed above the top piercing scar, a geyser of pus erupted from the bottom scar, with a satisfying phffft. Horrified and fascinated, I wiped away the pus and pressed harder. I poked at both scars. I squeezed from different angles, in vain. Nothing more would come out, and now I was in agony.

Still, I had so much work to do; I didn’t have time for this. I sat back down at my desk and tried to concentrate. It was no use, though. My belly button was killing me. But wait—could it actually kill me? I turned to Dr. Google. “Can a belly button piercing get infected after 30 years?” I typed. Answer: Yes. “Can you die from an infected belly button piercing?” Again: Yes. The infection can spread to other organs! It can get into your bloodstream! Abscess! Sepsis! It was time to go to the doctor, deadlines be damned.

Luckily, a new urgent care clinic had opened up in my neighborhood, just a five-minute walk from my apartment. I’d recently been there with a terrible sore throat that turned out to be strep and was pleased with how fast and efficient they’d been. So while I knew I probably needed to get in and see my dermatologist, I figured urgent care could at least save me from imminent death by belly button.

When the doctor walked in, though, I started to have my doubts. I explained the situation—old belly button piercing, extreme pain, probable abscess, possible death—as she snapped on a pair of gloves and came straight for my stomach.

I shrank away from her probing fingers. “It really hurts,” I whimpered. “What are you going to do?” 

“It has to come out,” she said.

“What? What has to come out?” I quavered. “What’s in there?”

She turned away, as if she hadn’t heard me. “Put a hot compress on it. Fifteen minutes. It has to come out.”

“But what? What are you talking about? What has to come out?”

She turned back to me and shook her head. “You want me to pop it?” she said, a gleam coming into her eyes as mine widened in horror.

I knew this was a terrible idea—Dr. Google had staunchly warned against squeezing anything abscessed or infected. Was this woman even a real doctor? Was I being punked? Still, maybe she knew something I didn’t. She was wearing a white coat!

“Would you numb it first?” I asked, tremulously.

She smirked. “Oh no. No. We don’t do that here.”

“Then no. No thank you,” I said, trying to pull the paper gown tighter around me without touching my belly.

“OK. Take this antibiotic. Do the hot compress. It’ll come out.”

“What? What will come out?” I asked, desperation in my voice. She tore a prescription off her pad, handed it to me, and walked out.

At the pharmacy, I picked up the antibiotic, along with a box of gauze pads and a roll of first-aid tape, hoping to construct some sort of protective situation for my poor navel. I trudged home, wishing I could go back in time and have a talk with 18-year-old me. Don’t do it! I’d tell her. It’s not that cool! You won’t even like it! And 30 years later, you’ll regret it! But who was I kidding? Teenage me would have rolled her eyes at middle-aged me. What are you now, almost 50? Yikes. I could almost hear her laughing.

I gave up on work and devoted the rest of the day—now evening—to my belly button. I’d put a washcloth under hot water, wring it out, hold it against my navel until it cooled down, then repeat. Each time, I’d press a little bit on the edge of my belly button, and eventually, the hard ridge softened. Pus started to ooze out of both scars, which I now realized were not scars at all, but still holes.

This routine continued for the next 24 hours, with breaks for sleeping, popping Advil and antibiotics, and posting ominously to my Instagram story, warning people against belly button piercings, with Olivia Rodrigo as a background track. I’ve made some real big mistakes…

The next evening, during one of my investigatory squeezes, the edge of something solid began to emerge through the top hole of my inflamed piercing. It hurt, but behind the ache, I felt potential for relief. I got my sterilized safety pin and poked at the hole, opening it a little further. I gritted my teeth against the pain and, gently but firmly, kept pressing. Slowly, the object emerged from the old piercing scar. I felt as if I were floating outside my body; it was like watching those birth videos they showed us in science class. How big was this thing? What was this thing? 

Finally, pop! The whole thing whooshed out, with a trail of pus and blood behind it. Chills coursed through my body; I felt like I was going to pass out. In my hand was something that, more than anything else, resembled a baby tooth. A small one, to be sure—but a baby tooth. It was hard, white, and rectangular. Whatever this was, it had to be what the doctor was talking about. I rinsed it off, put it on top of a penny for scale, took a picture for my medical records, and threw it away. 

I posted to my Instagram story: “I’m not going to tell you what just happened to me except to say that I’m sure there is a YouTube channel out there on which a video of it would have gone viral. Some of you sickos would have loved it. Also, I feel better now. Horrified, but better.”

A reply came almost immediately from a friend my same age, also with an out-of-commission navel piercing. “It’s me. I’m the sicko. Details please.” I told her about the baby tooth. “Amazing. Baby tooth. Omg.” She told me that she has to pop her old piercing, like a zit, every month or two. “It’s kind of fun.” Was I the only one not doing this? Why didn’t anyone tell me?

Another friend (a man who’s never had his navel pierced, if you’re keeping score) texted me. “Send me the pic. I feel personally challenged.” I did. “That’s a navel stone,” he said immediately. I told him I’d never heard of such a thing and asked if he’d made it up. “It’s a real thing. Instagram it. You’re obviously not a popaholic.” 

I looked it up. “A navel stone can form over time from a buildup of sweat, dirt, and dead skin cells in the belly button area. Poor hygiene can lead to this buildup, and if the area isn’t cleaned properly, the substances can become trapped and form a stone,” Google told me. 

Poor hygiene? I was offended. “But I clean my belly button!” I told my friend. “I do!”

“Stuff just gets in there,” he answered. 

My belly button did feel much better, and the inflammation had eased, but probing around, I could still feel some lumps in the general area of my old piercing. Were there more? Did I have a whole mouthful of baby teeth in there? I scheduled an appointment with my dermatologist; I pictured them running some sort of tiny pipe cleaner through my old belly button piercing, kind of like the way I used to clean the spit out of my flute back in my marching band days. Then I hoped they’d close it up, maybe with a laser.

As usual, though, reality was less exciting than my imagination. The physician’s assistant examined my old piercing, which had gone back to normal within days of expelling the baby tooth, and said there was nothing in there except a little bit of scarring. He gave me a shot of cortisol, right into the scar tissue, to shrink it (a nothing little pinch, next to the pain of the piercing), told me to keep it clean and not to worry, and sent me on my way. 

And that, my friends, is the end of the story. (At least, I hope it is.) I went home, finished my work, and told my daughters never to get their belly buttons pierced. Belly button bling may be back, but if anyone reading this is considering getting a ring, this baddie is begging you to consider a clip-on.

(One more thing: That urgent care five minutes from my apartment, with the doctor who wanted to “pop” my infected belly button piercing? I walked past it a couple months later and it had been shut down. Mmm-hmm.)