Remember those cartoons you watched when you were a kid (okay, maybe you still watch them now) when someone decides to cook a chicken for dinner? Someone puts a very resistant (and very alive) chicken in a roasting pan (these are cartoons, after all), bastes it, shoves it in the oven and cranks up the heat. And as kids, we sat there laughing at this bird as he starts to turn shades of pink and red and sweat, all the while devising his evacuation route, which he inevitably finds, because we all know that cartoon characters don't really die. Might be a bit too morbid a message to send to young kids...I might very well have become a vegetarian at the age of 6 if I had actually watched that chicken die a slow death in a kitchen oven, then get carved open and served with mashed potatoes at the family dinner table. Well, after a particularly dramatic episode at the spa yesterday, I can now empathize with that poor cartoon chicken.
First and foremost, let me set the records straight about a couple of things pregnant women don't handle too well: noxious fumes, stupid comments about size/weight made by people who don't have filters, and heat. I will be talking about the latter of those three. Due to the residual effects of the panic disorder I had, I did not tolerate heat- or becoming terribly overheated- before I even became pregnant. It was a trigger for me that instantly made me feel nervous and claustrophobic (which is why I had my wedding reception outside in the middle of July *smart*).
I arrived at the spa with a good friend yesterday for a little post-birthday pampering and was ready to have my tired, achy body-turned-baby machine worked on. I stripped down and put on a plush, velvety robe and wandered into the "relaxation room" to sip on some fresh cucumber water as I waited for my pregnancy massage. After the massage therapist came to get me and take me back, I was instructed to take off my robe and bra and climb under the blankets on the massage table as she went to heat up the body cream she would be using. *Bliss.* (I don't normally indulge in packages like these- in fact, this is the first one I had ever done). She started my massage by having me lie on one side while she worked the kinks out of that side of my back, shoulders and butt and then had me switch to the other side to do the same. The cream she was using was unscented (thank God) but was a little warm, although it felt very relaxing. For the last part, she had me lie on my back, semi-reclined, while she put a warm neck wrap around the base of my neck. She started rubbing down my feet, thighs and legs with various oils and creams and we continued to carry on a jovial conversation. She then took two heated towels (are you noticing a recurring theme yet with the words "warm" and "heated?") out of what appeared to be a tiny microwave and wrapped them around my feet. At first, I felt like I just needed to have a sip of my ice water, so I asked to sit up and have some. Perfect. I laid back again, but continued to feel *off* and then a minute later, without any warning, I bolted upright (which was amazing enough considering I was almost flat on my back) and immediately knew I was going to pass out. I didn't even think this was possible since I had been lying down. I started hyperventilating and tried desperately to remain calm and control my breathing as the black spots started to appear and the room began to spin. I remember uttering something about getting a fan, and luckily, there happened to be one in the room. The massage therapist immediately turned it on full blast, went to get an ice pack and placed it directly on the back of my neck. I was cognizant enough to remember that I should put my head between my knees, but but apparently not with it enough to remember that I had an 8 month pregnant belly in my way. *No good.* So there I sat, as hunched over as humanly possible in all my round, naked glory (at this point, the covers had fallen off of me and I didn't even care), wheezing and shaking and trying to find my "happy place," to keep from keeling over.
I found out later that the bed was actually heated as well. Lovely. This person was supposed to be certified to do pregnancy massages. And she was a nice girl, really, at a very well established, four-star spa. But at what point in her training, I'm curious to know, did they tell her: "Place the pregnant woman on a heated bed, proceed to cover her with a warm cream from head to toe, then have her lie almost flat on her back (a big no-no when you're this far along) and then make sure she has a warm neck wrap.....oh yeah, and while you're at it, take 2 bath towels, stick them in a microwave until they're almost on fire, and wrap her feet in them."
*I already felt like I'd been fattened up for the kill with my nice round belly.* To her credit, I was given a discount because of the "drama," but as I wandered from my pregnancy massage down the hall for my facial, I was greeted by yet another warm bed and steam blowing in my face. In not so many words, I told the nice lady to turn the bed off and point her steam elsewhere unless they were looking for a lawsuit. Well, unless she wanted to know the joy of picking a naked pregnant woman off the floor. The rest of the day, thankfully, was uneventful although I'm not sure how "relaxing" it actually was...
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