Jeff stared at me with a look of abject horror on his face. "What are you talking about?"
"I dunno," I said.
"You don't know? Didn't you ask any questions? Cauliflower in his belly button? And you didn't ask any questions?"
So I called the nurse. And she didn't know what I was talking about either. I began to think that Dr. J. was funning me. You know, like, potatoes growing in your ear wax or something. So the nurse said she'd have Dr. J. call me back.
As soon as I heard his voice on the other end I doubled over cracking up, and he started cracking up. "I am so sorry," he gasped. "That is like, the worst explanation I've ever given anyone."
He proceeded to clarify the cauliflower belly button, which is properly known as a granuloma. It looks like a small, wet, pink piece of cauliflower--"Not a whole head of cauliflower," he assured me. It's kind of a wart-like thing, easily disposed of with the wave of a silver-nitrate wand, but if you don't get rid of it right away it stays forever. "Will Oscar mind having a piece of cauliflower in his belly button? Maybe," Dr. J. thought aloud. I fail to see how it could not be removed later. I mean, look at Michael Jackson. And now they're doing whole face transplants and things. I don't know. Anyway Dr. J. said he sees it in two or three out of 40 babies a year, and from the looks of Oscar's belly button, he thought maybe there was a 10 percent chance of it forming.
So I said, "Should I just look at it once a week to check?" Because this was my self-imposed plan during the Horrendous Ring Worm Panic of December 2007. I was only allowed to obsessively comb through the cats' fur once a week. Without this plan I feared I would be stripping Oscar every three minutes to stare at his bellybutton.
"No no!" said Dr. J. "If it forms, you will see it by Thursday."
Well, good thing I called. Commence obsessive navel gazing.
"And if it looks like broccoli," Dr. J. added, "then we're really in trouble."
