My Helper

It is recorded in Genesis that God took from Adam a rib and formed him a Helper: Eve.

That is my favorite definition of a spouse. Some people say they married their best friend, their better half, their soulmate, etc. When my Mister and I promised to love each other for ever and ever, and signed papers with the great state of Mississippi, we married our Helper.

This post is a shout out to the Helpers that married endometriosis and infertility.

I cannot imagine going through endometriosis or infertility without him. He has been my Helper with this disease even before we were married. My first surgery for endometriosis was 2 months before our wedding. My next surgery was before we’d reached our first anniversary.

He has helped shoulder the daily (sometimes crippling) pain that my endometriosis causes. He can go down the “feminine hygiene” aisle and not flinch, he can even pick out exactly the right thing by himself. Every.Time. He understands my monosyllabic communication when my pain reaches a 9.5 on the 10 point scale.

When we first started talking about infertility, I told him straight up that we both had to be “all in.” This couldn’t be “my” thing. He accepted that, and has been amazing.

Our first two rounds of IUI, Sister Nurse gave me my shots. I knew that these hormones make me a less-than-rational reactor at times, and I didn’t want to have any reason to take that out on Mister. According to him, however,

If I can give the cat her insulin shots, I can give you fertility shots. It’s basically the same thing, right?

You can giggle. I did.

For our most recent round of IUI, he gave my shots of liquid fire ant Menopur, and even gave me my trigger shot. It may not sound like a super marriage bonding moment, but it has been. It’s intimate in a way that I find very difficult to explain.

He has held me and cried with me every time a treatment has failed. He has gone to every single appointment with me. He is on a first name basis with Doctor in Hattiesburg, and at DocJax he asks just as many questions as I do.

He is a “fixer”, as most men are, and I know it bothers him that he cannot “fix” this for us. Our first years of marriage have not been normal. No one mentions endometriosis or infertility in premarriage counseling. We’ve both learned as we’ve gone.

He’s not perfect. Neither am I.
He’s made mistakes, but you will not find a list of them on this blog, or anywhere.

Now, as I wait for the wrath of Medusa the Cyst, he waits. This weekend, he’s been looking for quick trips we can take to help alleviate the stress and take our minds of the (many,many) negatives. He is working two and three jobs so that we can continue to pay cash for everything and save for possible future treatments. On top of those jobs this weekend, he’s taken care of me with a several day-long migraine.

I am married my nurse, my therapist, my back scratcher, my ledge talker, my negotiator, my hand to squeeze, my personal comedian, my live-in cook. I married my Helper. He is mine and I am his.

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