By: Jenna Thompson
Updated: September 20, 2018
Originally Published: February 15, 2016
WARNING: This narrative may not be suitable for the faint of heart.
So, here I am, deep into my pregnancy and let me tell you, it’s been a wild ride filled with all sorts of less-than-pleasant experiences. My fingertips have gone numb—apparently a common issue for expectant mothers known as carpal tunnel syndrome. It’s beyond frustrating. My gums bleed every time I brush my teeth, I’ve lost all the hair on my arms, and I’ve found just one position in bed that doesn’t leave my legs feeling like they’ve fallen asleep. To top it off, I’ve caught a cold and can only find relief through hot baths and endless pity parties. Oh, and let’s not forget the little parasite growing inside me that’s taking all my nutrients. My lovely housekeeper likes to say, “Your baby is stealing your beauty,” which is a delightful sentiment, really.
Things have been particularly challenging lately. Just last week, I had to say goodbye to my cherished 16-year-old cat. I reached out to my mom for comfort, only to be met with a barrage of family woes. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, I received a call from my doctor notifying me that I have gestational diabetes.
Now, I know what you’re thinking—it sounds like I’m trying to compete with Tig Notaro’s story of misfortune. But bear with me; it’s all part of the larger picture. With gestational diabetes, I have to prick my finger to check my blood sugar four times a day, eat specially planned meals five times a day, and sleep is a rarity because my body keeps going numb. My husband is away, my cat is gone, and I’m subsisting on saltines and string cheese for lunch while performing blood tests every four hours. Oh, and I can’t even enjoy a scotch!
So, my friend and I decided to treat ourselves to a massage. We went to a local day spa that has a serene vibe but lacks the frills. The co-ed quiet room is where we awkwardly sit in robes, waiting for our turns, pretending we’re not all just a few feet away from each other, separated by flimsy fabric and a pile of gossip magazines.
In this place, there are no private rooms—just a big area with tents separating the massage tables like a dimly lit funhouse. I always dread the tents because you inevitably hear other people’s massages, and there’s always that one person who is completely unaware of their surroundings, moaning loudly.
Once I’m led to my tent, I awkwardly climb up on the table, which is no small feat at eight months pregnant. As I settle in, I notice that I feel wet. It’s as if I didn’t dry off properly after my shower, but I know that’s not possible. It’s dark, and I can’t feel my fingers well, so I do the only logical thing—I try to smell it.
And that’s when I realize, much to my horror, that I’m rolling around in a puddle of… well, let’s just say it’s a bodily fluid that shouldn’t be there. Cue the internal panic. My mind is racing, “No way, this can’t be happening!” But there I am, covered in someone else’s sperm. It’s a nightmare scenario that I never thought I’d find myself in.
As I sit there, the masseuse opens the curtain and asks if I need more time. I stammer out something incoherent, trying to remain polite despite the fact that I’m in a truly outrageous situation. Instead of screaming for help, I calmly mention the “situation” on the bed—because, you know, decorum.
Now, I’m trying to shield myself with the blanket, only to realize that it’s all over the blanket too. I make a hasty decision to wash my hands while the masseuse investigates, and it hits me—I just pricked my finger for a blood sugar test right before this. Am I now an urban legend? “Did you hear about the pregnant woman who got an STD from a massage?”
I find my friend, still in a state of disbelief, and tell her what just happened. True to form, she insists we leave immediately. However, as I express my disappointment about leaving, she says we’re definitely going to talk to the manager first.
Once we reach the front desk, the masseuse finds us and looks pale as he explains that the previous client has left a disaster behind. The manager is apologetic and offers to prepare a new room for me after I shower. I comply, but not without feeling like I just stepped into a horror story where my pregnancy has taken a bizarre turn.
After a cold shower, I’m ushered into a new massage room, but the tension is palpable. The same masseuse returns, clearly mortified. I’m just trying to keep it together while thinking about the rights I need to assert.
“Do we need to file an incident report?” I ask, feeling increasingly official. I can’t help but wonder about the implications of this incident on my pregnancy.
We write statements detailing what happened, but then the manager’s computer crashes. I’m left feeling frustrated and anxious about the entire experience. The manager assures me that the client responsible is banned from the establishment, but I still want to ensure everything is documented.
As I attempt to regain my composure, I realize that this experience is just another chapter in the chaotic journey of pregnancy. If you’re navigating similar concerns or curious about home insemination, check out resources like IVF Babble or visit Make a Mom for more information on the subject. You can also find additional insights in our post on home insemination.
In summary, pregnancy can be a messy and unpredictable adventure. It’s essential to have support and resources at hand to navigate the ups and downs along the way.