Pregnancy loss is all too often a grief that is long-lasting.

What to say to women going through miscarriage and baby loss

Updated 1017 GMT (1817 HKT) October 9, 2020

(CNN)On a cold day in March 2019, I locked myself on the roof of my New York City apartment building with a bottle of wine and a pack of ancient cigarettes I hadn't smoked in years. I was determined to take what little pleasure could be gained by privately unraveling outside in very public air.

In just one year, I had been pregnant three times, but I did not have a baby. It was something I could still barely register, no matter how many times I filled out the hospital intake forms. Three pregnancies, zero children — an error, a horror, a badly done sum.
That night, I allowed myself to howl out great gulping sobs as Manhattan glowed, oblivious, uncaring. I looked at the sky, the street, the wine I hadn't drunk for months, the cigarettes I hadn't smoked for years, and I said to everyone and no one, "I give up."
The first pregnancy had ended dramatically, gruesomely, on my bathroom floor. The second was lost in the scratchy black-and-white TV silence of the ultrasound room at my doctor's office, as I heard the muted thump of a heartbeat waft through the walls from the room next door, elusive music belonging to a woman luckier than me. The third, a whisper, was gone mere weeks after announcing itself via the twofold joy and terror of the test's double pink line.
I was 33, healthy, practicing yoga every day and eating a nutritious, balanced diet. How could this be happening?
All around me, friends and family members announced their pregnancies, a seemingly endless series of bump photos on Instagram or ultrasounds brandished over FaceTime. Seeing them resulted in a kind of feral envy that left me feeling as guilty as I was devastated. Meanwhile, my days revolved around crack-of-dawn blood draws at the fertility clinic, my desperate attempt to figure out why my babies kept passing through me like ghosts.
Though I was lucky enough to have a loving husband, family and group of friends, hardly anyone knew what to say to me. Many stumbled through "so sorry" and left it there. Much worse was the barrage of unsolicited advice, "suggestions" and inquiries into my eating and exercise habits. Even more terrible were the people who seemed to know what not to say but weren't sure what to say. This resulted in the worst possible outcome -- silence.
I, on the other hand, suddenly couldn't shut up. After my third miscarriage, something about the depth of my despair made me incapable of lying. I decided if I couldn't stay pregnant, then I could at least stay honest. So I told everyone -- my boss, my dentist, a stranger at a wedding after she asked me if I was "thinking of having kids."