As far as romance, he has always done just right. Flowers just-because-I-love you, mix tapes and song downloads because wonderful music must be shared, jewelry and gifts that would make your heart melt. For Christmas, he even buys me fabulous shoes. Yet it was not the romance, the music, or even the fashionable shoes that solidified this union - it was something much dirtier.

Eric and I met in college, and almost immediately became attached. Staying up all night talking and canoodling was a constant, and the connection was solid from the start. The last thing I was looking for was a serious relationship, but this one grabbed hold of both of us so unexpectedly. Every moment with Eric offered an intimacy - not only physical intimacy, but that special feeling of knowing a person's soul, of finding a kindred spirit and a safe place.

Ah, but the dirty stuff…that's when I knew he was my forever someone.

You see, I've always had a difficult stomach. Call it an angry gut or a twisted intestine; I would have preferred to keep this secret in the confines of my own bathroom. But one evening after a particularly rough bout of intestinal distress, disaster struck: the toilet clogged. It was horrifying in so many ways, not the least of which was that I didn't own a plunger (not that I would have known how to even use it if I had one). Slightly panicked, I called Eric. His apartment was less than a five-minute walk from mine - I would borrow his toilet plunger and return it later. On a moment's notice he brought it over, and even offered to do the dirty work for me. While I fought an inner battle between the damsel-in-distress longing to be rescued and the independent-and-embarrassed-woman who can do it herself, Eric took on the job. He plunged that nasty mess and braved that horrible stench, and he never complained.

He didn't tease me. He didn't ask for anything in return. He never told anyone else or made me feel bad about the mess. He hugged me and made me feel like it was okay, and somehow even managed an "it happens to everyone, glad I could help" shrug.

That day I knew that this man would be in my life forever.

He had seen the worst, and he loved me still. Better yet, he would help me with the dirty parts and love me more than ever. It was, and is, a humbling and beautiful feeling.

As it turns out, the yucky bathroom test was an important one. Three years ago I was diagnosed with Crohn's Disease. The manifestations of this disease for me have involved chronic diarrhea, sphincter damage, and other intestinal distress which isn't fit to discuss in polite company. But as someone afflicted with this disease, I want people to understand the nature of the beast. I want people to know that there are a million people with Irritable Bowel Diseases (IBD), and that shame about the symptoms is not helping anyone. If we're ever going to find a cure for this disease, sometimes we're going to have to talk about poop.

To out myself as a person living with IBD means owning up to the dirty parts. And I could do this because from the very beginning of our relationship, my dear Eric treated the crap as just another thing to deal with. It doesn't define who I am or make me less loveable, but it is part of me that must be acknowledged.

It's so easy to show someone your love in the good times, when the sun is shining and you're feeling romantic. But the person who shows you that love in the dark times, when you find yourself ill and frightened and unsure and messy…that person is the one you keep.