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By Pamela Ribon
Updated: Sep. 20, 2018
Originally Published: Feb. 15, 2016
WARNING: The following content may not be suitable for all readers.
So, here I am, very pregnant, and let me tell you, it comes with a whole lot of not-so-pleasant surprises. For starters, I can’t feel my fingertips – it’s carpal tunnel syndrome, which seems to be a common issue among expectant mothers, and it’s just plain annoying. Brushing my teeth has turned into a battle because my gums bleed, I’ve lost the hair on my arms, and I’ve finally settled into a single sleeping position that doesn’t make my legs numb. I’m also dealing with this persistent cold, and the only remedies I can turn to are hot baths and a big dose of self-pity. Oh, and let’s not forget the little parasite inside me that’s happily absorbing all my nutrients. My El Salvadorian housekeeper puts it bluntly: “Your baby is stealing your beauty.”
Things have been tough lately. Just the other day, within the span of an hour, I had to say goodbye to my beloved 16-year-old cat. I reached out to my mom to share my grief, only for her to unload a slew of family crises on me instead. As if that wasn’t enough, I received a call from my doctor delivering the not-so-great news that I have gestational diabetes.
I know, I know. It sounds like I’m trying to one-up the situation. “Thank you, I have gestational diabetes. Thank you.” But I’m sharing this because it plays a crucial role in my story.
With gestational diabetes, I’m required to prick my finger four times daily to monitor my blood sugar, eat special meals five times a day, and sleep has become an elusive luxury. My husband is out of town, my cat has passed, and my lunch consists of nothing but saltines and string cheese. With all that going on, I decided to treat myself and a friend to a long-awaited massage.
We headed to a local spa I had visited a few times. It’s a no-frills place that tries to create a serene atmosphere. They have a co-ed quiet room where we all awkwardly don robes, waiting our turn while pretending that we aren’t just inches away from each other, separated only by flimsy fabric and a stack of gossip magazines. The setup doesn’t feature individual rooms, so we’re instead ushered into a shared space with draped tents.
I dislike the tent situation because you can hear everyone else’s massage and there’s always that one person who doesn’t understand the concept of relaxation and is too vocal about their enjoyment.
Eventually, I’m led to my designated area, where I awkwardly attempt to climb onto the massage table, fully aware that I’m eight months pregnant. As I shuffle and scoot around, I suddenly realize I’m wet. It feels like I must have somehow missed a spot after my shower, but that can’t be right since I showered a while ago. It’s dark, and as I rub my hips and backside, I start to think it’s some kind of lotion or gel. Not being able to feel my fingers properly, I think to myself, “Maybe I should just smell it.”
And, oh boy, does it smell like semen.
Yes, you read that right.
Here’s where the situation takes a turn. My initial instinct is to leap off that table, but getting into that position took me an eternity, and I’m not about to fling my body around. So instead, I sit up and try to discern what’s happening. Lo and behold, I’ve rolled around in a puddle of anonymous sperm.
My brain goes into overdrive, trying to rationalize the situation. “No, this can’t be happening.” “It is, and you need to remain calm.” And just then, the masseuse opens the curtain, sees me on my knees, and asks, “Do you need more time?” My mind is racing, and I stammer, “Uh! Um… no, it’s just… uh… there’s something…” Somehow, politeness kicks in, and I think of all the people in their tents, but the other part of me is screaming, “I NEED YOU TO HELP WITH THIS DISASTER!”
So I settle for, “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.”
Yes, that was my shining moment of wisdom.
The masseuse comes in to check it out, and as I attempt to shield myself with the blanket, I realize it’s all over the blanket too. I drop the blanket and leap off the table, exclaiming, “I’m just going to wash my hands while you… um… I think maybe I should wash my hands.”
As he inspects the sheets, I can’t help but wonder, “What if my water broke? Or could this be just another weird pregnancy thing?” Just then, a rational part of me screams, “STOP! DO NOT TOUCH YOURSELF! Your husband is out of town, and even though you can’t get pregnant again right now, do you really want to risk touching anything after what you just encountered?”
So, I wash my hands and find my friend, completely at a loss. I stutter, “I don’t… I need some advice.”
Like I’m calling Martha Stewart for help. “Hi, I’m naked and covered in jizz. What do I do?”
To her credit, she looks at me and says, “OK, that’s disgusting, we’re leaving right now.”
But then, proving her status as a great friend, she adds, “But if you want a massage, we’re going to talk to the manager and make sure you get a great one.”
We head to the front desk, where I describe the incident, and the masseuse finds us looking pale. “That guy needs to be banned. There’s stuff everywhere!” The manager explains their process of changing sheets, and I’m just relieved to know they’re aware this isn’t normal.
After a quick cold shower, I meet with the manager, who apologizes profusely and assures me they’ll handle the situation. I climb onto a new table for my massage, and while the same masseuse attempts to work on me, the tension is palpable. I’m still wondering about the implications of what just happened.
I’m thinking, “What if I have gestational herpes? Can I get STDs from this?” It’s a wild ride of emotions as I try to stay calm and remember to take care of myself.
In the end, the massage is lackluster, and my mind is racing with worry. After it’s all said and done, I get dressed, and the receptionist gives me a big hug. “You are a beautiful goddess creating life!” she exclaims.
The manager sits down with me to discuss what happened, and I express the need for a formal report. We write our statements, and as the manager’s computer crashes, I find myself behind his desk, trying to locate the documents. It’s a chaotic end to a day I’ll certainly never forget.
If you’re curious to learn more about home insemination methods, check out this excellent resource on in vitro fertilisation. For those interested in at-home insemination kits, BabyMaker is a reputable online retailer worth exploring. And for another engaging read, be sure to visit this blog post.
In summary, pregnancy is a messy journey, filled with unexpected challenges and moments that can only be described as surreal. If you find yourself navigating similar experiences, remember to bring a flashlight—sometimes you’ll need it to illuminate the wild twists and turns along the way.
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