“We Can Do Hard Things” by Tish Melton
Deep breaths. Deeeeepppp breaths, Steph.
Okay, here we go.
When you listen to Glennon Doyle’s podcast “We Can Do Hard Things,” the first thing you’ll hear is a snippet of the song her daughter wrote. Then, whatever topic they’ve decided to discuss, you’ll walk through with Glennon, her wife Abby and her sister, Amanda (or sister/sissy as they lovingly call her.) Sometimes they have others join them as well, and you’ll sit through a conversation about a book that person wrote or the work they are doing and sharing with the world. Usually, there is a moment where the inconsistancies of our society come up and I feel the call to change the unfairness and hard things of the world, but then, at the end of every episode, these women remind me that there’s only one thing I need to do. “The next right thing.”
Over five years ago, before her podcast, Glennon posted on her Instagram, “Just do the next right thing-one thing at a time. Don’t ask permission before. Don’t explain yourself after. Do the thing. Let it stand.”
I think my grief from losing our William has looked a lot like this. One day at a time. One moment at a time. One breath at a time. Just doing the next right thing in whatever space I’m in as time goes on. And the next right thing for me to do, is share William’s story. Share his strength, the moments he amazed us, the moments when I truly saw him and felt his love. The next right thing is to build his legacy. And we’re starting with this blog. And this first song…
The first time I heard it, I was a new listener of the podcast and on my way to work as a hair stylist (as I had for the past decade or so.) The episode’s last line was Glennon’s voice sweetly said, “Now I give you… Tish Melton and Brandy Carlisle,” followed by the acoustic cord that starts this song. I noticed how the melody was so kind; so gentle. Then, after listening to the lyrics, I felt motivated. Motivated to do ANYTHING. It didn’t matter what it was- I guess I was motivated to live life in general. After all, we can do hard things!
Not long after hearing it for the first time, I heard it again while I was curling my hair with fresh morning sickness breath reminding me to brush my teeth before doing my makeup- even if I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. I rolled my eyes when I recognized the upbeat tempo and beautiful harmonies, “being pregnant is fuckin hard,” I thought to myself then, “I don’t really want to do this.”
Now, as I listen to it for the… I-don’t-even-know-how-manieth time, I’m sitting in the county library with pooled tears that keep threatening to fall. This song started by motivating me to “get through” pregnancy and now it’s helping remind me that the hardest thing I’ll ever have to do is miss that pregnancy- miss when that baby boy was safe and had a heartbeat.
My son, William, was the baby I was pregnant with. The pregnancy was incredibly difficult for me, although now, that seems so silly to write down. I had terrible “morning” sickness (it wasn’t just in the morning… really it was any and all times of each day) the entire first trimester. The emotional side of pregnancy is no joke either, and it was painted on the side of the ADHD, Bipolar I and PTSD diagnosis walls I had built to keep myself in check. The metaphoric graffiti of being pregnant was threatening the organization of the emotions I had worked for years to perfect. I was erratic, could burst into tears at the drop of anything, and my thoughts were scattered ALL of the time.
While I curled my hair that morning listening to this song, I cried and tried to convince myself that I could do this- grow a human and be a good human, I just needed to ride the emotions as they came. It was only 35 more weeks until I would hopefully be a good mom and be able to keep another person alive and help them along their human journey. But oh holy shit… I was going to be in charge of all of that- of another human and what about childbirth? Was I going to be able to get to the hospital? What if I mess something up and lose the baby? What if…?
That is how my mind worked… all 35 of those weeks. Well, 36, because William was born exactly a week after his due date, on March 25.
Looking back now with my 20/20 vision, I want to just make that newly pregnant version of myself put the curling iron down and take some deep breaths like the ones I took when I started writing today. I want to hold her face, her eyes locked on mine and say, “Please, don’t take this for granted. It’s more than the cliché ‘you’re gonna miss this…’ and I imagine, I would cry while holding her attention and say, “you’re going to miss him.”
William died on June 28th, when he was 97 days old. In simple terms, he died from CHD, which stands for congenital heart disease or defect. The defect William was born with was critical aortic stenosis with a bicuspid aortic valve. (Maybe in another piece, I’ll write what I know about that diagnosis, but for now, I’ll have a link at the bottom of this with a reputable site where you can read more about it if you’re interested.) Really though, William’s death is more complicated than the CHD. William died because, not only did he need a heart transplant after surgeries we hoped would solve the issue, but his lungs were too sick to recover, and his kidneys were dormant after he went into cardiac arrest at 12:04 am on April 18. He was being cared for by some of the brightest doctors and nurses, he was hooked up to too many tubes and machines to count and he still wasn’t going to recover. So, on June 28th, my husband Alex and I laid with him while his medical team removed the incredibly complex devices that were keeping him alive. He was sedated and at peace before his heart stopped, just in time for my heart to break and a piece of it to go with him into eternity.
Several weeks later, listening to Tish sing, “we can do hard things” in my ears, as I still sit in the library, the tears are no longer just threatening to spill, they are cascading. I cry because the hard thing I’ll use this song to motivate me through now, is telling William’s story. It will remind me that if I can let William go, I can keep his legacy alive; the legacy that has replaced his physical body. Despite the actual, physical pain I have from my deep breaths whistling in and out of that missing piece of my heart, I will continue to listen to the songs and write. I will continue to retrace the steps of his life from my perspective to share because that’s what William deserved- for people to know his strength.
The lyrics, “I hit rock bottom, it felt like a brand new start…we’re adventurers and heartbreak’s our map…” are maybe the most accurate for this point in my life.
If you want to know William’s story, follow along as I share songs that relate to it each week on this page. I’ll be answering questions from you as they come in and I’ll be tending to this heart momma ache by following the map Tish sings about in hopes it can maybe help someone else in any way possible.
Love you, thank you for witnessing William’s life.
To learn more about aortic stenosis and bicuspid valves, click this link:
Stephany Luithly 
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