Updated: April 22, 2021
Originally Published: September 19, 2015
I was quite the rebellious teen. In other words, I was a rude and disrespectful jerk. When a teenager acts out before they hit eighteen, we tend to excuse it as “just being wild,” knowing their brains aren’t fully developed yet. Now that I’m almost forty, I’m not sure I deserve that same leniency, especially when I think about my own kids becoming “wild teenagers.” Trust me, I was a piece of work back then. My level of disrespect could rival any punk rocker.
When I turned eighteen, my mom gifted me $80 for a new pair of shoes. Naturally, I did what any rebellious teen would do: I bought a $40 pair and stashed the rest for my first piercing. Hey, it was the 90s! In those days, a lot of defiant kids sported nose rings or eyebrow piercings. Those were cool, but I was a real trendsetter. You’re probably assuming I went for a nipple ring—good guess, but no. Think lower. Nope, not a belly button either. You got it.
At eighteen, I decided to pierce my lady bits. Because, really, who thinks about the consequences at that age? For a solid decade, I had that piercing. I even kept it when I met my husband and became a bit more responsible. I settled into married life, balancing work and home duties. I thought about removing the piercing a few times but realized I needed a professional piercer to do it, and frankly, I wasn’t about to drop my pants in front of a stranger.
Then I got pregnant. My OB-GYN, who knew about my piercing, assured me it wasn’t an issue. “Lots of women deliver just fine with genital piercings,” she said. After a smooth pregnancy, we headed to the hospital for an induction.
I arrived on a Thursday night, trying to get comfortable in a strange place while dealing with an extra 60 pounds. They started the induction process, and I waited. The next morning, a doctor broke my water to speed things up. After two grueling days of labor and only dilating to 3 centimeters, things took a turn.
Suddenly, machines began to beep, and the medical team rushed in. “Baby is in distress, we need to do a C-section,” they said. I was scared but determined to get my baby here safely. That’s when the nurses dropped the bombshell: “Um, we need to discuss your jewelry.”
“Jewelry? She’s not wearing any,” my mom interjected. Oh no. I had never told my mom about my piercing. My husband ushered my parents out, leaving me to face the nurses. “What’s the issue? I was told it wouldn’t be a problem,” I asked.
The nurse explained that while it wasn’t a problem for natural labor, it posed a major risk during surgery. If they needed to use paddles to revive me, the metal could burn my skin. They suggested cutting it off. Cut it off? With a bolt cutter?
I was prepped for surgery when three nurses walked in wielding a giant bolt cutter. My mind raced with all the possible disasters. Thankfully, my massive belly shielded me from that scene. After several attempts, they realized the surgical-grade steel wouldn’t budge. In the end, they decided to tape over the piercing and hoped for the best. Fortunately, they didn’t need to revive me, and the C-section turned out to be less painful than I imagined. My baby was born, perfect and pink, and all that chaos faded from memory.
Fast forward to my next pregnancy. At eight months along, my new OB-GYN, a fabulous guy with a great sense of humor, asked, “Girl! You still haven’t removed that piercing?” Ugh. I dreaded the idea of going to a piercing shop in my pregnant state. “Can’t you just tape it again?” I suggested. “No way, sister! That’s your homework. Get it out,” he insisted.
So, I waddled into a piercing studio, nervous as ever, and explained my predicament to the tattooed pin-up girl at the desk. After some small talk about my bolt cutter incident, she led me to a private area, where she expertly removed the piercing and handed it back to me in a little bag, revealing battle scars from the previous encounter.
Now, I’ve had three successful C-sections, each resulting in three beautiful boys. I keep the piercing in my wallet as a reminder of my past and how far I’ve come. And, like most adults, I know when to close a chapter. My mom never found out about my “jewelry,” and why should she? I’m finally a grown-up mom myself.
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In conclusion, we all have those youthful mistakes that shape who we become as adults. Embracing our past while moving forward is part of the journey.