Journey to the Centre of my Belly Button

Scott Black | Jul 15, 2010

The following is a true story.

It was an average night. I put the kids to bed, cleaned up, etc. At bedtime I noticed a slight pressure in my navel, like something was stuck in there. Probably a wood chip, I thought, as I’d been chiseling earlier that day. I dug at it absent-mindedly while chatting with my wife Patti about the day. After a while I noticed that I was making no progress. So I sauntered to the bathroom to have a look in better light, and saw what looked like a piece of wood--but not really. It was the wrong colour, and quite symmetrical. It was deep, deep inside my navel. I grabbed at it, and it would not come. I pulled with the tweezers, no dice. What was this object? I tried once again mightily with the tweezers.

BINGO! I had it! What I saw next will forever be etched in my memory: Six legs! Kicking wildly, attached to what I quickly discerned, to my abject horror, was the engorged blood sac of a deer tick!

PART TWO: Marriage is a life-long commitment. Most days are filled with the daily routines of lunches, recycling, etc., but every once in a while there is a precious opportunity for true bonding between husband and wife. “Is this such a situation?” I asked myself, as I trundled back down the hall, clutching the tweezers with the sundered body of the arachnid. I waited a few minutes, let her read her book, then casually mentioned, “I just pulled a tick out of my belly button.”

She looked up at me. “What?” I repeated myself.

Two minutes later, after hearing that I didn’t get the whole tick, we had removed the shade from my bedside lamp, and Patti was crouched over my navel, peering inside, while I held it open with two popsicle sticks. Soon we found it, a little black dot, the head and remaining two legs (yes, ticks are arachnids, like spiders and scorpions, not insects, thus have eight legs). Nothing worked. We tried needles, pins, different pairs of tweezers, three pairs of needle-nosed pliers, and in the process turned my navel into hamburger. The black dot would not be dislodged. At one point I looked over at the piece I had removed, and some of the legs were still moving! I wrapped it in a tissue, took it downstairs and threw it into the fire. At one point we both were laughing so hard tears were streaming down our cheeks; seconds later, we were dead serious. I remembered a story that as long as the head of the tick is in your body, it can grow a new sac! We did some research with Google. It’s not true, thank God, but the risks of Lyme Disease and serious infections are very real.

Finally Patti gave up, and we both went to bed. I found it hard to sleep knowing that my little friend was still with me.

PART THREE: GOOGLE IS AMAZING

The doctor leaned forward, his eyes wide, mouth open in amazement: “In your belly button?!” This wasn’t going well.

After telephoning Telehealth, and being told that I MUST see a doctor to have the head removed, I awoke with the grim realization that at some point I was going to have to describe my “situation” to a medical professional. “Whom should I see about this?” was the question. Our family doctor? Emerg? We decided to start with our family physician.

“What’s it about?” the receptionist asked. I stammered for a few seconds, then mentioned something about a tick. Finally I just blurted out the facts: “It’s a tick, in my belly button. I’ve got a tick in my belly button.” I quickly added “And my son, he’s had some sort of allergic reaction. He’s got bumps all over his body.” I felt I needed to anchor the appointment with something credible. That one made more sense to her. She booked me and my son for 12:30.

I brought Patti with me for support. Several times I thought of turning around and heading back home, then remembered the horrible photos I’d seen on the internet of Lyme Disease sufferers with huge “bullseye” infections, joint pain that lasted for years, difficulty thinking (maybe this wasn’t my first tick bite?).

Our doctor was not available, so we were seen by a very young fellow, who suggested we see an allergist about Brian, then asked me about my tick. The note on the door had said only “Scott Black, tick” so he had no idea as to its location. Once he found out, he was less than eager to probe around in there. He had me lie down on the table. My navel was, alas, not at its most presentable: I’d shaved the area around it, and we’d dug around until we’d hit blood, then filled the hole with goopy polysporin. “It’s very deep in there,” I urged, trying to open things up so he could see the black dot. No touching, one quick look at my inflamed little volcano and he referred me to Urgent Care. He even called ahead for me. God knows what he said. I had the maddening sense that he didn’t believe me and thought I was NUTS!

When we arrived, I told the whole story to the Triage Nurse, then another nurse, then had to wait for 45 minutes, then told a medical student, who was delighted, as I was her “first tick.” After another long wait, I was awakened by a seasoned pro, a fifty-ish blond woman who told me in no uncertain terms that she dealt with ticks all the time, and would soon set me right. She disappeared, came back with a big needle, jammed it into my abdomen, emptied its contents into me, and declared me ready for the “procedure.” Then she produced a hemostat, those scissor-like jobbies that lock in the open position, and forced my navel open so wide that I decided to stop watching. After a few minutes, and several more tools, all the while chatting with the student about ticks, she pronounced that she’d gone as far as was prudent, and would have to leave it inside me. Forever. “It’s too spongy. I’ll give you some antibiotics. Just be glad it’s not on your penis. Once a man presented here with a huge tick on his penis. We left the room to prepare, and by the time we returned the tick had dropped off and disappeared. It took us five minutes of crawling on the floor to locate it.”

Well, that’s something. My great grandfather served in the Great War. From time to time pieces of shrapnel would surface in his leg. He’d pick them out with a penknife, and carry on. Me? Nothing as heroic as a piece of a bomb; I’ve got a tick in my belly button. And I’m not the only one. Google “tick in belly button,” and up will surface several stories of other poor souls across the planet who share my pain. There truly is a community for everyone!