70 Staples – Not broken. Rebuilt.

Belly buttons are curious little gadgets.

They serve no obvious purpose after birth, contribute very little to society, and spend most of their adult lives being either itchy, lint-filled, or mildly offensive. And yet, threaten to take one away and suddenly a person will defend that little knot of skin like it’s a family heirloom.

Stay with me here.

As a matter of medical record, my abdomen now resembles a collaborative effort between modern surgery and a distracted seamstress. Over the years, I have had a partial hysterectomy, a total hysterectomy, an open cholecystectomy, an open umbilical hernia repair, a robotic pancreaticoduodenectomy, which the medical community calls a Whipple because apparently “pancreaticoduodenectomy” did not sound quite menacing enough, and most recently a major open hernia repair north of 15 centimeters with something called “loss of domain,” which sounds less like a diagnosis and more like a real estate dispute.

So, if I were the sort of woman who spent her days mourning the visual decline of her midsection, my belly button would rank somewhere below “general structural integrity” on the list of concerns.

I am not that woman.

Still, imagine my surprise when my hernia surgeon informed me that I might lose my belly button in the process.

He then asked, with all the emotional investment of a drive-thru employee asking whether I wanted to make that a combo, “Do you want me to build you a new one?”

Now, there are questions one expects in a surgical consult. Do you have allergies? Have you had anesthesia before? Do you understand the risks?

“Would you like a custom navel?” is not usually on the list.

Naturally, I asked the only sensible question left to me, which was whether it would cost extra. He said, “No, I’ll throw in your belly button for free.”

Well. Relief washed over me. Because apparently, even after all my slicing, dicing, stapling, and rerouting, I had drawn a firm line in the sand at complimentary navel replacement.

After that, I had some time to think about why I was so attached to the darned thing. For starters, it had been with me from the beginning. Literally. It was my first life-support port. It delivered nutrients, comfort, and a respectable start in the world. Later on, it served other important functions, several of which I will not discuss because I am trying to keep this blog only mildly inappropriate. It was familiar. It was mine. It was the one original feature on my abdomen that had not been rearranged, repurposed, or argued over by a surgeon with a marking pen.

And in all those hours spent flat on a gurney waiting for tests, consults, scans, lab work, and people to come in and say, “Hmm,” it had also become a built-in fidget spinner. A small but loyal source of distraction.

So yes, one of the last things I said before anesthesia was, “Don’t forget my belly button.” I like to think that gave the surgical team confidence. And one of the first things I did when I woke up after surgery was grope around my middle like a panicked raccoon checking for silverware. Sure enough, it was still there.

Not exactly triumphant. Not glowing. Not centerfold material. But present and accounted for. Recovery, of course, did not improve its dignity.

It got gunky. It got cruddy. It spent a brief but memorable period looking like something that ought to be cleaned with a bottle brush and a prayer. Still, as far as I know, it never smelled, and that feels like the kind of small victory a person ought to appreciate.

Now it has healed into its new life as a mostly decorative feature. It no longer connects to anything important. It just sits there in the middle of the wreckage, looking surprisingly pert and minding its own business. And I am oddly grateful for it. Not because it is glamorous. Lord knows we passed that exit several surgeries ago.

But because it is mine, and in a season when so much had to be cut away, stitched up, rebuilt, and surrendered, they did not take that small ridiculous thing from me.

Which is, admittedly, a strange thought to be having on a perfectly beautiful Friday afternoon.