From an outside perspective.

Tonight, I was watching a show on Hulu. Not the most productive use of my time when I always complain about being busy, but ya know...I felt like being lazy. In this show (to remain unnamed), a waiting-for-her-baby-to-be-delivered mother breaks her arm, and during the exam, the Dr. realizes the baby has died. It doesn't say so immediately, but the mom asks if the baby is alright and the Dr. says, "yeah, baby's just sleeping" and leaves the room. It then shows the Dr. telling another Dr. that the baby has died. I cried. Not gushing tears, like I would've expected, but I cried. Mostly, I felt grateful that a TV show was portraying fetal death at all...it's usually so taboo.
    As the show progresses, there's another scene where the Dr. goes to tell the parents what's really happened. She knew, I'm sure of it...the mom probably knew the whole time, but she tells the Dr., "Say it...I won't believe it until you say it." The camera cuts back and the mom and dad start crying as they hold eachother and the Dr. stands there with her head in her hands. I cried again. I thought that would be the end of that part of the episode, but it wasn't.
    Toward the end, it shows the mom delivering her lifeless baby. The Dr. wraps the baby up and hands her to the mom. Mom takes the baby and holds it tight while her husband holds her and they cry together. I cried again (honestly, most people would).
    The point, you ask? All this time, I have only thought of Scotlin's death from my perspective. Even when my mom tells me about how hard it is to watch her daughter go through something like this. Even when my sisters write blog posts about what it was like to be there with me during my labor and holding my son. Those are real instances, so I don't know why watching a portrayal of it by some actors on TV touched me so much, but as I watched and cried, I realized that I've never given myself credit for this really hard thing I've gotten through. That's not to say I've done it alone, because I've had an amazing support system through it all. But, I made the decision to stay strong. I made the decision to turn to Heavenly Father. I decided to keep going to church and work and school. Like I said, I didn't do these things alone. But even with all the people encouraging me, I could have just said no and stayed in bed for years, never showered, quit my job, ruined my marriage, stayed depressed, and gotten fat (or sickly skinny-one of the two).
   I always told my sisters that I hated it when people told me I was "so strong" because they only saw me then I was at work or church or school and I was dressed with make-up on and going about my days. I just didn't want to hear that I was strong because of all the secret, and often sacred, times when I was sobbing uncontrollably in the corner with matted hair, running make-up, blotchy face and puffy eyes whild I screamed outloud, and eventually prayed to my Father in Heaven that he would just send my son back, or that He would just take all the hurting and aching away. You didn't see me then, and I felt guilty to be called strong when I had such low moments.
  But today, after a stupid show opened my eyes a little more, I actually feel strong. I feel like I've accomplished (rather, am accomplishing) something really important and difficult. Thank you for encouraging me. For telling me I'm strong, even after all those times I asked you not to!