I Have IBD, My Husband Doesn’t

It may seem like a funny title, but this week I’m going to talk about how IBD has affected my relationship with my husband. I guess this is in my mind because we’re about to embark on a two-week road trip, and it just shows how far we’ve both come in learning to live with my gut. 

When I met my husband 19 years ago IBD was not a part of my life. I worked, I traveled, I played, I was athletic, and never ever did I think about my gut, or bowel movements, or where a bathroom was, or what I could eat or drink. No, none of that came into my every day thought process until seven years later after we’d been married about a year and a half. 

It was in 1997 that it seemed like whenever we took a trip, anywhere, my gut would erupt and I’d either spend the first few days in the bathroom and sleeping, or we’d just abort the trip altogether and return home. Things I’d eaten or drunk a million times before all of a sudden seemed to send me running for the bathroom. And then there were the times when for no apparent reason at all I’d spend hours or days on the toilet pooping out my insides. It’s no wonder that after a year of this and many interrupted trips, dinners, nights out with friends, sex, and work both I and my husband got frustrated and angry. 

It was during an anniversary trip to St. Barth’s that my usually patient and even-tempered husband finally blew up. We were forced to rush out of a restaurant before finishing our meal when my gut erupted. The restaurants only bathroom was out of order and as my husband paid our bill I ran down the street to the ice cream shop to use their restroom. We then drove back to our island bungalow where I spent another hour in the bathroom. When I finally exited the bathroom my husband was furious. 

 “What is wrong?” he demanded. “Why can’t we just go on a trip without this happening?”
 After bursting into tears I answered him, “I don’t know. It’s just as frustrating to me as it is to you. I don’t understand what’s going on either. I wish I did. But I don’t.”  
 “Well, you better figure it out because I won’t do this anymore. I feel like you don’t want to be with me, and when you are, it makes you sick.”
 “That’s not true and you know it,” I told him. “I love you.”
 “Well, then figure out what your problem is or I’m not sure I’ll be here much longer.”

While I was stunned by his declaration I couldn’t stick around to discuss it with him further, I had to get to the toilet again. I spent the rest of the night shuttling between bed and the bathroom. And by the time morning came I was exhausted. But, we were leaving the island that day and so I had no choice but to pull it together and get home. I took four Imodium and made my husband the following promise:

 “If you’ll just help get me home I’ll do anything it takes to figure this out. Just give me six months to do it.”