Reflecting on my teenage years, I can confidently say I was quite the unruly youth. In other words, I was a rude and disrespectful brat. When we talk about those rebellious years before turning eighteen, we often use the term “wild teenager” to excuse their behavior, understanding that their brains are still developing. However, as I approach forty, I’m not sure I deserve that excuse anymore. I certainly won’t tolerate the same nonsense from my kids when they reach their “wild” phase. Trust me, I was off the charts; my level of defiance could have given the punk rock scene a run for its money.
On my eighteenth birthday, my mother gifted me $80 to buy a new pair of shoes. But, staying true to my rebellious nature, I bought a $40 pair and used the leftover cash for my first piercing. It was the 90s, after all.
Back then, it was common for rebellious teens to sport a nose ring or an eyebrow piercing. They were cool, but I wanted to stand out. You’re probably thinking I opted for a nipple piercing—close, but no. Think lower. No, not a belly button piercing either. That’s right, I decided to pierce my intimate area. At eighteen, who thinks about the future?
For the next decade, I proudly wore my genital piercing, even as I met the man who would become my husband and the father of my children. I grew up and moved on from my rude ways, settling down and embracing adult life. I considered removing the piercing a couple of times but quickly realized I wouldn’t be able to do it myself. The horseshoe-shaped ring required a professional’s help to remove, and honestly, I wasn’t about to drop my pants in front of a stranger. I was an adult now.
Then Came Pregnancy
Having established a good relationship with my OB-GYN, Dr. Smith, I thought I was in the clear. “No problem,” she assured me. The piercing wouldn’t interfere with delivery. Many women with genital piercings give birth without issues. After a smooth and uncomplicated forty weeks of pregnancy, I was admitted to the hospital for induction.
We arrived on a Thursday night, and I attempted to get comfortable while carrying an extra 60 pounds. They administered medication to prepare my cervix, and I was given something to help me sleep. We waited.
The next morning, a doctor broke my water. “We want to speed things up,” she informed me. I wondered if everything was normal as they started the Pitocin and gave me an epidural.
After two grueling days of labor, I had dilated a mere 3 centimeters!
My parents came to visit during this time. My mother made anxious small talk while my father serenaded me with Broadway tunes. Suddenly, alarms started sounding, and nurses rushed in with an oxygen mask.
My memory of those moments is hazy, but I distinctly heard “baby distress, lack of oxygen, C-section” amidst the chaos. I was terrified; I wanted my baby to be born safely.
Then the nurses said, “Um, Jamie? We need to discuss your jewelry.”
“Jewelry? She’s not wearing any jewelry,” my mother interjected.
Oh no. I had never confessed to my mom about my piercing. Thankfully, my husband understood and ushered my parents out as I faced the nurses. “What’s the problem?” I asked, ripping off the oxygen mask. “I was told this wouldn’t be an issue.”
The head nurse replied, “It wasn’t a problem for natural labor, but it’s a significant issue for a surgical procedure.” Apparently, the concern was that in the event of needing to use defibrillator paddles, any jewelry could cause burns.
“Cut it off,” another nurse suggested.
Cut it off? What!?
As I was being prepped for a C-section, three nurses walked in wielding a massive bolt cutter.
A big. Ass. Bolt cutter.
I shut my eyes tight, cursing my past self for this reckless decision. Thankfully, my large pregnant belly shielded me from seeing what was about to unfold. After several attempts, they discovered that the surgical-grade steel wouldn’t yield to the bolt cutter. In the end, they opted to tape over the piercing, hoping for the best. Fortunately, I didn’t need resuscitation, and the C-section turned out to be less painful than I had anticipated.
My beautiful baby boy arrived, and all memories of labor and bolt cutters faded into oblivion.
Then I Got Pregnant Again
By my final visit at almost eight months along, my new OB-GYN, a fabulous doctor named Dr. James, examined me and exclaimed, “Girl! You still haven’t removed that piercing?”
Ugh, the thought of going to a piercing shop while pregnant filled me with dread. “Can’t I just tape it again?” I asked.
“Nope,” Dr. James insisted. “That’s your homework. Get it out.”
So, I waddled into a local piercing and tattoo shop, where a sign warned against entering if you were pregnant, sunburned, drunk, high, broke, or rude. I took a deep breath and walked in.
The receptionist, a pin-up-style beauty, listened to my nervous ramble about the bolt cutter incident and my procrastination. She led me to a medical area, where she expertly removed the piercing and handed it to me in a small bag, commenting on the marks left behind from its near demise.
I’ve now had three successful C-sections, bringing three wonderful boys into the world. I keep the old piercing in my wallet as a reminder of the journey from my reckless youth to adulthood. And as for my mom? She still doesn’t know about my “jewelry,” and why would I share such details now that I am a grown-up mom myself?
Further Reading
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Summary
This humorous and reflective story follows Jamie Collins as she navigates the consequences of her rebellious teenage decisions, particularly a genital piercing she opted for at eighteen. Years later, while facing labor and delivery, she learns that her past choices come back to haunt her in a most unexpected way. Through three pregnancies and C-sections, Jamie evolves from a wild teenager into a responsible adult, all while keeping an amusing reminder of her youthful indiscretions.