Life Is Unpleasant. Bring a Flashlight.

Warning: This tale is not for the faint of heart.

home insemination Kit

So, here I am, heavily pregnant, and let me tell you, it’s a rollercoaster of discomfort. For starters, I’ve lost all feeling in my fingertips—thanks, carpal tunnel syndrome. My gums bleed while brushing my teeth, my arm hair has vanished, and I can only find one position in bed where I don’t feel like my legs are going numb. On top of that, I’ve caught a cold and all I can do is take hot baths and wallow in self-pity. Plus, there’s this little parasite, as my Salvadorian housekeeper puts it: “Your baby is stealing your beauty.”

Things took a turn for the worse recently. In one hour, I had to say goodbye to my cherished 16-year-old cat, then I called my mom to vent, only for her to unload a slew of family dramas on me. To top it all off, my doctor called to inform me that I’ve developed gestational diabetes. Yes, I’m aware this sounds like a sad stand-up routine, but stick with me—it’s relevant.

Having gestational diabetes means I must prick my finger to test my blood four times a day, eat specialized meals five times a day, and sleep is nonexistent due to numbness. My husband is out of town, my cat has passed, and my lunch consists of saltines and string cheese. To cope, I decided to treat myself to a massage with a friend.

We went to this no-frills spa in my neighborhood that tries hard to create a serene atmosphere with a co-ed quiet room where we awkwardly wait in robes, pretending not to notice how close we are to each other.

The spa doesn’t have private rooms, just an open area with dividers that make it feel like a dark maze. I’ve always disliked those dividers because you inevitably end up listening to others’ massages, and there’s always someone who lacks the concept of volume and ends up grunting like they’re having a personal battle with a foam roller.

The massage therapist led me to my section, instructed me to remove my robe and hop onto the table, and then he left. Now, let me tell you, getting onto a massage table when you’re eight months pregnant is no easy feat, but I managed. That’s when I realized—wait for it—I was wet. At first, I thought I hadn’t dried off properly, but that didn’t make sense since I had showered over fifteen minutes ago. So, I touched the area, trying to figure out the source of the moisture, and it smelled like… well, let’s just say it was not something I expected to encounter.

And yes, it was exactly what you think it was.

My immediate instinct was to jump off that table, but I had just spent thirty seconds getting into this awkward position, so instead, I cautiously sat up on my knees, and yep, I was rolling around in a puddle of… well, you know. Panic set in as my brain argued with itself.

“No, this can’t be happening.”
“It is. Try to remain calm, but you’re covered in someone else’s bodily fluid.”
“No, no, just close your eyes and pretend this is all a dream!”

At that moment, the massage therapist opened the curtain and saw me in an awkward pose, and I stammered, “Uh, I think there’s something on the table…” I don’t know why I felt compelled to be polite, but I was. Maybe it was the tranquil music filling the air or the dim lighting. I was thinking about everyone else in their tents, even though a part of me screamed, “You need to come in here and deal with the fact that I am covered in… bodily fluids!”

So, I told him, “Uh, there’s something on the bed here, and I think it’s… from a man. Please don’t smell it.”

The masseuse stepped in, and I realized my situation was worse than I thought. I was in a sticky situation, literally. I managed to excuse myself to wash my hands while he inspected the sheets. All I could think was, “What if my water broke? Is this a magical pregnancy moment?”

Just as I thought about checking myself, another part of my brain screamed, “STOP! Your husband is out of town, and even if you can’t get pregnant again right now, do you really want to touch anything after what you’ve just encountered?” Thank goodness for that rational side of my brain.

I washed my hands and found my friend, frantically explaining my predicament. “I don’t… um, I need some advice.” Like I was calling a hotline. “Hi, I’m naked and covered in, um, fluids. What do I do?”

A true friend would understand, and she did. “That’s disgusting. We’re leaving right now.”

But then she showed how fantastic she was by saying, “You’re still getting a massage. Let’s go talk to the manager.”

So, we found ourselves in the lobby, explaining the bizarre situation, and the masseuse looked pale as he admitted, “Yeah, that guy needs to be banned. It’s everywhere.” The manager told me they layer sheets in the morning, and as each client leaves, they remove a sheet or two.

I was appalled. “I was rolling around in a lake of who-knows-what?”

The manager suggested I shower while they prepared a new room. Cold water didn’t help much, but I was just trying to scrub away the horror of my experience.

When I returned, I was greeted with sympathy from the receptionist, who said, “You are creating life in your special vessel. I’m mortified for you.” I had to escape the awkwardness.

The manager took me aside, admitting they had no protocol for situations like this, which made me think it must’ve happened before. I insisted on filing an incident report and getting the client’s name in case I developed gestational herpes. “What should I do? Call the cops?”

After we documented the incident, I couldn’t shake the thought of the poor excuse for a massage I had just endured. It was awkward and finished early, and I left feeling even more anxious than when I arrived.

In summary, my attempt at relaxation turned into a bizarre and mortifying experience. It’s a reminder to always be prepared for the unexpected—especially during pregnancy. And remember, if you ever find yourself in a sticky situation, don’t hesitate to share your story!

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