Life Is Unpleasant. Bring a Flashlight.

So, I’m heavily pregnant. And with that comes a slew of delightful inconveniences. For starters, I can’t feel my fingertips—this has been going on for weeks. Apparently, it’s something called carpal tunnel syndrome, which is common among pregnant women, and it’s pretty annoying. My gums bleed when I brush my teeth, I’ve lost all the hair on my arms, and I can only manage to sleep in one awkward position without my legs going numb. On top of that, I’ve caught a cold, and the only remedies I’m allowed are hot baths and pity parties. Oh, and there’s a parasite inside me that happily absorbs all of my nutrients. My housekeeper often quips, “Your baby is stealing your beauty.”

Recently, things have taken a turn for the worse. In just an hour, I had to say goodbye to my beloved 16-year-old cat, then called my mom for comfort only to hear about five more family disasters, and finally, I received a call from my doctor breaking the news that I have gestational diabetes.

I know, I know, this sounds like a bad stand-up routine. “Thank you, I have gestational diabetes. Thank you.” But trust me, it’s relevant to what happens next.

Having gestational diabetes means I need to prick my finger four times a day and eat special meals five times a day. Sleep? Forget about it! My body is numb, my husband is away, my cat is gone, and I’m stuck munching on saltines and string cheese for lunch. With the bloodletting every four hours, and the unfortunate fact that I’m not allowed to have any scotch, my friend and I decide to treat ourselves to a long overdue massage.

We go to a no-frills spa in my neighborhood that tries to create a serene atmosphere. The quiet room is co-ed, where we all sit awkwardly in robes, pretending not to notice the other naked bodies around us while flipping through In Touch magazines.

The place doesn’t have private rooms; instead, there’s a large space divided into tents, like a dimly lit funhouse. I’ve never liked these tents—they make it impossible not to hear someone else’s massage, and there’s always that one person who seems to forget they’re not alone, letting out strange noises.

The masseur guides me to my tent, instructs me to remove my robe and hop onto the table. Climbing up is quite the challenge at eight months pregnant, but I manage to shuffle between the sheets and heavy blanket. Then, I notice I’m wet. It’s not like I just stepped out of the shower—there’s no way. I take a moment to investigate the sensation around my hips and backside, rubbing at the area. It feels like some sort of gel, perhaps I accidentally spilled lotion on myself? I can’t feel my fingers, so I’m uncertain. Maybe I should just smell it.

It smells like… semen.

Yes, that’s right—it is semen.

At this point, my brain is having a meltdown. Part of me screams to leap off that table, but after the struggle to get into position, I’m not going anywhere. Instead, I sit up, trying to make sense of the dark surroundings. Yes, I’ve rolled around in a puddle of mystery fluid. My mind races: “No, this can’t be happening.” “It is. Try not to panic, but you are covered in unknown sperm.” “Maybe this is just another whimsical part of pregnancy?”

Just then, the masseur opens the curtain and sees me in this compromising position. “Do you need more time?” he asks, and I stammer, “Uh! Um… no, it’s just… uh… there’s something…”

Politeness takes over, despite the circumstances. “Uh, there’s something on the bed here and I’m… it’s not… well, I think it’s from a man. Don’t smell it.”

There’s my advice for the day. “Hey, don’t smell this. You’re welcome.”

As the masseur steps in to inspect the situation, I pull up the blanket to cover myself, only to realize it’s all over the blanket too. Panicking, I drop the blanket and awkwardly stumble out of the bed, muttering, “I’m just going to wash my hands while you… um… deal with this.”

He inspects the sheets, and a part of me wonders, “What if my water broke? Or maybe this is just another bizarre part of pregnancy?”

No sooner do I have these thoughts than I remember I had pricked my finger for a blood sugar test just before entering the massage room. I can’t help but feel like I’ve become an urban legend. “Welcome to the world of pregnancy!” “Did you hear about the woman who got into a mess like that?”

Feeling sorry for myself, I tell my friend about the situation, and thank goodness for her. “That’s disgusting; we’re leaving right now.”

But here’s the kicker—when I express my disappointment about cutting our massage short, she says, “Okay, but you’re getting a great massage. Let’s go talk to the manager.”

In the front area, we explain the situation. The masseur appears, looking pale, confirming that the mess was everywhere. The manager tells me they put down twelve sheets every morning, and as each client leaves, they pull back a few sheets. My friend and I exchange glances, “Oh, so that’s how it works.”

The manager suggests I take a shower while they prepare a new room. I hop in the shower, trying to wash away the trauma, but I’m filled with disbelief that I was rolling around in something so unsanitary.

After my shower, the manager assures me they’ll handle the situation. I’m nervous, to say the least. The same masseur returns, looking just as mortified as I feel, and I try to focus on getting through it. However, I can’t shake the thought: “What if I end up with an STD? Could gestational herpes be a thing?”

During the awkward massage, I realize he’s avoiding any areas that had come in contact with the fluid. The session is cut short, and as I get dressed, the receptionist approaches me, wrapping me in a hug. “You are a beautiful goddess creating life. I’m so sorry this happened to you!”

I manage to escape her embrace and meet with the manager, who explains they’ve never had a situation like this. I ask to file a report and get the client’s name—“What if I need to call the cops?!”

We write up our statements, but of course, his computer crashes. Now, I’m trying to salvage the situation while feeling like I’m in a bizarre sitcom.

In the end, I leave with the hope that this will become just a funny story one day, instead of a horror tale of my pregnancy.

Conclusion

In summary, pregnancy can bring about unexpected and uncomfortable situations, as I learned during my massage mishap. It’s essential to be prepared for anything, including the need for proper hygiene and understanding your rights as a client. If you’re considering home insemination, there are plenty of resources available, including this informative post on home insemination and you can find great products at Make a Mom. For more on pregnancy, check out the CDC’s guidelines.

Life Is Unpleasant. Bring a Flashlight.

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