Updated: Sep. 20, 2023
Originally Published: Feb. 15, 2016
WARNING: This narrative may not be suitable for those with weak stomachs.
So, I’m in the thick of my pregnancy, and let me tell you, it’s not all sunshine and rainbows. For starters, my fingertips have gone numb—thanks to carpal tunnel syndrome, a delightful gift for expectant mothers. On top of that, brushing my teeth is a bloodbath due to bleeding gums, my arm hair has vanished, and I can only find one sleeping position that doesn’t leave my legs feeling like lead. To make matters worse, I’m battling a cold while being restricted to hot baths and wallowing in self-pity. Oh, and there’s a little parasite inside me that’s munching on all my nutrients. As my El Salvadorian housekeeper humorously puts it, “Your baby is stealing your beauty.”
Things have been particularly tough lately. Just last week, I had to say goodbye to my cherished 16-year-old cat. After that, I called my mom for some comfort, only to be bombarded with a slew of family troubles. Then, to top it all off, my doctor called to tell me I have gestational diabetes.
I know, I know—this sounds like a sad stand-up routine. “Thanks for the gestational diabetes, life!” But I share this not just for sympathy, but because it’s all part of the story.
With gestational diabetes, I’m stuck pricking my finger four times a day and planning special meals five times daily. Sleep is elusive, my husband is out of town, my cat has passed, and I’m surviving on saltines and string cheese for lunch. To cope, I decided to treat myself to a long massage with a friend.
We visited a no-frills massage place in my neighborhood that tries to exude peace and tranquility. There’s a co-ed waiting room where we awkwardly sit in robes, pretending we’re not all just a few feet away from each other, separated only by thin fabric and a few gossip magazines.
The massage area is a large room with tent-like dividers, which I don’t particularly enjoy because you can hear other people’s massages—complete with sounds from those who forget they are not alone. After some awkward maneuvering, I finally get onto the table, only to discover that I’m wet.
At first, I think I might have missed a drying spot after my shower, but then I sniff—because why not? It smells like semen.
Let me tell you, my reaction is a mix of disbelief and confusion. I’m pretty sure my first instinct should be to leap off that table, but I’m too pregnant and awkward to make that move. Instead, I sit up and realize—yes, I’m wallowing in a puddle of someone else’s bodily fluid.
My brain starts to argue with itself: “No way this is real.” “Oh, but it is. Stay calm; don’t freak out.” Just then, the masseuse walks in, sees me in this compromising position, and asks, “Do you need more time?” I stammer, “Uh, there’s something on the bed,” trying to maintain some semblance of politeness while internally screaming, “I’m covered in jizz!”
As I try to explain, I’m also trying to shield myself with the blanket, which only seems to make matters worse because now it’s likely contaminated too. I manage to stammer, “Please don’t smell it,” which is not my finest moment.
The masseuse inspects the sheets, and I’m thinking to myself, “What if my water broke? Or what if this is just a bizarre side effect of pregnancy?” I’m torn between panic and absurdity, and then I remember that just before this mess, I pricked my finger for a blood sugar test.
Now I’m convinced I’ve become an urban legend—“Did you hear about the woman who got AIDS while pregnant?”
After what feels like forever, I finally wash my hands and find my friend. I explain what happened, and she immediately decides we need to leave. But when I mention I was looking forward to the massage, she insists we talk to the manager instead.
We march into the front area, and the masseuse follows, looking pale. He admits that the situation is worse than he thought—it was everywhere. The manager explains how they use multiple sheets, and we’re like, “Cool, but that does not excuse this.”
After a cold shower and a new room, I find myself back on the table with the same mortified masseuse. I’m still plotting my next move, feeling a bit like I need to file a report. I mean, I just rolled around in someone else’s bodily fluids; do I need to call my doctors?
As I’m deep in thought, I can’t help but notice that the massage itself is pretty lackluster. The masseuse is avoiding any contact with the areas that might have come into contact with… well, you know.
When the massage ends prematurely, I’m back in my clothes when the receptionist approaches, hugging me and uttering ridiculous compliments about my pregnant glow. I escape as quickly as possible.
After discussing it with the manager, who clearly has never dealt with a situation like this before, I insist on documenting this bizarre incident. We write statements, and as his computer crashes, I realize the absurdity of it all—“This place is made of semen!”
In the end, while the day was a disaster, I learned a lot about pregnancy, boundaries, and the importance of checking where you sit. For anyone interested in home insemination, you can find more information about how to navigate this journey successfully at Make a Mom.
Summary:
Pregnancy can be a messy and awkward experience, as illustrated by one woman’s chaotic day at a massage parlor where she found herself in an uncomfortable—and unsanitary—situation. Despite the challenges of gestational diabetes, numb limbs, and a deceased pet, she learns valuable lessons about self-care and the importance of knowing your boundaries during pregnancy. For more information on pregnancy resources, visit CDC and explore Make a Mom for insights on home insemination.
Keyphrase: pregnancy awkwardness
Tags: [“home insemination kit”, “home insemination syringe”, “self insemination”]