Have you ever felt yourself spiraling? You knew it was coming, could feel it growing, and felt completely powerless to stop it? That was me four years ago, but Marcus saved me. I sat on this story for a long time, knowing I would share it one day. I just didn’t know when. His 48th birthday seems like a good time. You ready? Let’s go.

One thing I have not been shy about is that I suffered from postpartum depression (PPD). Although I wasn’t diagnosed until after I had Malachi, I strongly suspect I also had it once MJ was born. With my sweet MJ, I just didn’t know better. It doesn’t help that hormones after pregnancy and birth are less stable than an elephant trying to walk a tightrope. Fun times!

I’ve written before how I dealt with my diagnosis of PPD with Malachi. You know it’s not great when the doctor walks in and says, “So, some of your answers on the postpartum assessment raised some red flags.” You also know it’s not great when your husband starts the doctor visit with “She cries a lot.” Cue the tears. What a sweet guy.

So when we found ourselves pregnant with Isabel almost three years later, both Marcus and I felt a bit more equipped to handle another bout of PPD. We knew what worked before and had guardrails in place to make sure I felt supported at all times.

My pregnancy with Isabel was hard. Maybe partly because of my age (seriously, how does one have a geriatric pregnancy while being a geriatric millennial? It’s as amazing as it sounds); and also partly because of where I was in life – chasing after a 4 and a 2 1/2 year old who delighted in making me chase after them. Although I had previously loved being pregnant, I was completely over it about four months in with Isabel. I was tired. I was moody. I was hungry. I was, for lack of a better word, huge. (Ok fine, there were better words. I just wanted to use them.) I was an absolute delight to be around. I know my family would agree…that I needed some sort of intervention. So while I definitely looked forward to giving birth, I also worried about how I would feel afterward.

Fast forward (lol, I wish) to November 4th. There we were, racing to the hospital at 5 a.m. even though my water broke at 3 a.m. because someone (not me) had not gotten his bag ready. After rushing around the house and finally getting in the car, Marcus pounded the final nail in the coffin of my patience.

“Hey, do you think we have enough time to stop for coffee?”

By all means, honey. Get you some coffee. Goodness knows you have such a hard day ahead of you.

ANYWAY, once Marcus came to his senses just .5 seconds later, we arrived at the hospital. Isabel came roaring into the world at 10:41 a.m., considerate enough to arrive at a time that ensured I would be able to eat lunch. Because the COVID numbers had started rising exponentially around that time, I was only allowed two adult guests in the room. Not even the boys could come to the hospital to see their new sister.

But just about an hour after Isabel was born, my sister called to tell me that the school had called about MJ. He had a fever and needed to go home. Marcus picked him up from my sister’s house and took him to the doctor, who diagnosed MJ with strep. Guess who couldn’t come back to the hospital that night? Added to my sadness that Marcus would not be able to stay with me, I felt guilty that my oldest wouldn’t have me with him while he was sick. Every sick kid needs their mother.

After a solo night of #teamnosleep, we got to go home the next day, which was a Friday. We spent the weekend visiting with family members who came over, cleaning, and getting ready for a new week. I knew from past experience that I would start feeling blue in about a week. But on Sunday night, as I was walking down the hallway, I felt it – the surge of hormones that meant I would not feel normal for quite some time. Almost simultaneously, I heard Malachi coughing. It was a cough I knew all too well – croup. Trying to keep a handle on my emotions, I went to find Marcus to tell him Malachi had croup. Once I told him, I promptly lost my loosely-held composure. Once again, I could not comfort my own son because I had Isabel with me.

I took Mali to the bathroom, turned on the shower as hot it would get, and prayed the steam would help his airways. Then I held him and sobbed. This was no soft sob. No siree. This was gut-wrenching, stomach-hurting, shoulders-shaking sobs. An ugly cry on steroids would be an understatement. I was so loud that even Mali quit coughing and stared up at me, looking at me like he didn’t recognize me. I didn’t recognize me. These emotions weren’t supposed to show up for another week! I wrote it down!

Marcus came, took Mali from me, and put me to bed. The next day, we took Isabel to her first appointment, where I (once again) sobbed while I answered their postpartum questions. Isabel’s pediatrician suggested I call my own doctor. But before I could call, I received a phone call from my OB asking how I was doing. When I mentioned that I wasn’t doing great, they asked me to go see them the next day. On the way to the doctor’s office that Tuesday, I mentioned to Marcus how great it was that doctor’s offices were proactive. They were checking on new moms before the scheduled appointment a week after birth. After a quiet pause, Marcus said quietly,

“Can I tell you something and you not get mad? I called the doctor. I was worried about you and didn’t want to wait a week before you saw him.”

THE WAY I CRIED THE REST OF THE WAY TO THE DOCTOR’S OFFICE. Never in my life have I felt so loved. I was hurting so much. It didn’t matter that some of my concerns were silly. It didn’t matter that there was a perfectly good explanation for feeling the way I was. Marcus saw his wife hurting and did what he could to fix it.

I have held on to that action off and on over the past four years. When I get frustrated, annoyed, or mad at Marcus, I remember that he still shows his love in a variety of ways. Yes, he’s the better cook. Yes, he takes all the kids so I can have some time on my own. Yes, he does laundry (he draws the line at folding, lol). But the one that will always hold first place in my heart is the way he advocated for me when I couldn’t advocate for myself.

In that moment, Marcus’ love for me looked like a phone call. I am so blessed.