Notes on Grief

This book is an anguished cry. Most memoirs show growth or progress or resolution. This is not that kind of book. Instead it scuttles expectation by remaining a free fall into grief. There is no safety net of “this is how I got through it”, just the constant awareness of other—that grief always at your side. While the song of her grief is personal, anyone who has grieved can pick up the rhythm. This view into her anger and sadness is so precise that I found myself time and again saying, yes-yes that’s been me. The book itself mimics grief. It dwells in shock and pain and has the feeling of no forward movement. The world around her is still humming and churning forward but Adichie herself does not move. And then it ends. show more Abruptly. And I was left alone with my quiet reaction—grieving of sorts for a book I hoped would last longer.

Much of the reaction I have read to this book is critical of Adichie for not wrapping her grief up in a bow and giving the reader an “it’s gonna be okay” pat on the head. I applaud her for not writing the kind of book that she knows would not have done her any good.

For even more devastating takes on grief, check out Joan Didion’s THE YEAR OF MAGICAL THINKING and Edward Hirsch’s GABRIEL: A POEM. Hirsh’s book in particular left me decimated. show less

I’d been both looking forward to and dreading reading this one for years. I waited until it was the 25th anniversary of my mom‘s death. Adichie writes such beautiful and intimate descriptions of grief. Her words echoed my own feelings back to me.

“Grief is a cruel kind of education. You learn how ungentle mourning can be, how full of anger. You learn how glib condolences can feel. You learn how much grief is about language, the failure of language and the grasping for language”

“How is it that the world keeps going, breathing in and out unchanged, while in my soul there is a permanent scattering?”

“I finally understand why people get tattoos of those they have lost. The need to proclaim not merely the loss but the love, the show more continuity. I am my father’s daughter. It is an act of resistance and refusal: grief telling you it is over and your heart saying it is not; grief trying to shrink your love to the past and your heart saying it is present.”

“A friend sends me a line from my novel: 'Grief was the celebration of love, those who could feel real grief were lucky to have loved.' How odd to find it so exquisitely painful to read my own words.”

“Another revelation: how much laughter is a part of grief. Laughter is tightly braided into our family argot, and now we laugh remembering my father, but somewhere in the background there is a haze of disbelief. The laughter trails off. The laughter becomes tears and becomes sadness and becomes rage. I am unprepared for my wretched, roaring rage. In the face of this inferno that is sorrow, I am callow and unformed.”

“Does love bring, even if unconsciously, the delusional arrogance of expecting never to be touched by grief?”

“I back away from condolences. People are kind, people mean well, but knowing this does not make their words rankle less.”

“Grief is not gauzy; it is substantial, oppressive, a thing opaque. The weight is heaviest in the mornings, post-sleep: a leaden heart, a stubborn reality that refuses to budge. I will never see my father again. Never again. It feels as if I wake up only to sink and sink. In those moments, I am sure that I do not ever want to face the world again.”

“We don't know how we will grieve until we grieve.”

“I wish.. I wish.. the guilt gnaws at my soul. I think of all the things that could've happened, and all the ways the world could've been reshaped to prevent what happened on that day...” show less

i am a very paranoid person. i spend much of my time imagining the worst case scenario for everything. my boyfriend is driving home from work? black ice! low visibility! accident! and it consumes me. so to read about what is essentially my worst nightmare happening to someone—losing someone unexpectedly—made me feel quite a bit all at once.

i almost feel invalid to have thought of my dearly departed pets the entire time i read it, because the central focus is the loss of her father. and to lose a pet is not the same as a parent. but they meant just as much to me and i know that no grief is invalid no matter who it’s for. loss is loss. so i felt, very deeply, the loss of my sweet companions, as i was forced to realize that i will show more never see them again. these little creatures that once consumed my life, that once were the sun that i revolved around, are gone. i will never see them again. show less

This is just what I needed. This is the perfect gift for someone dealing with grief (IMHO). The similarities between Chimamanda’s experience and mine were surprising since everyone experiences grief so differently. I laughed and cried and screamed, “yes”.
From the very first page she describes how she could only see her father’s forehead on their Zoom calls. FaceTime offered the same image of our father during our calls. My father loved Sudoko, and butterflies remind me of him because they were everywhere at the hospice center, the funeral home and the cemetery. Little yellow butterflies.

This passage hit home:
“Grief is a cruel kind of education. You learn how
ungentle mourning can be, how full of anger. You
learn how glib show more condolences can feel. You learn
how much grief is about language, the failure of
language and the grasping for language.”

I hated everyone who told me it would get easier with time or he’s in a better place or remember the good times. I wanted to punch them in the face, quite frankly.

The most comforting thing anyone said to me was that it doesn’t get easier, it just becomes part of who you are. I still break down when I hear a Dolly Parton song on the radio. It’s a “new normal” in which you learn to exist.
I hope that by writing this and putting it out into the world Chimamanda finds healing, as I found it healing to read. show less

What a profound experience. This marks my first dive into audiobooks through Libby from the Montreal libraries. Narrated by the author herself, listening to this book was like having a direct line to Adichie's soul. Her words, delivered with her intonations and emphasis, brought a whole new depth to the experience. Within the first few minutes, my heart was already breaking open, and it seemed like each chapter only made the ache more palpable. Grief is such a personal journey, and Adichie captures its essence with such raw honesty that I couldn't help but feel every word deep in my chest. It's a painful beauty, one that I wouldn't wish upon anyone yet one that I also believe is essential for growth and healing. Adichie's sentiment that show more experiencing grief is a testament to the love we've known is both powerful and heartbreaking. This was a beautiful and poignant exploration of loss. show less

The death of a loved one is a universal experience, even if the manifestation of grief is unique for each person. I do not judge Adichie for being crippled by grief at the sudden loss of her beloved father; I do judge the book she decided to publish, and I do not have a high opinion of it.

On the page, Adichie's grief is so all-consuming that it leaves no room for others' grief. Indeed, she resents and dismisses the expressions of mourning from those around her. Her words alienated me rather than sparking empathy; there is no room for the reader in her pain.

On a side note, the only other book I've read of Adichie's is We Should All Be Feminists, so I was greatly surprised when in Notes on Grief she patronizingly tells her mother she show more should not engage in certain traditional mourning rituals without bothering to ask her mother if she wishes to observe them. Surely telling women what they should do based on your preconceived notions is the antithesis of feminism?

I would have given the book a lower rating if Adichie had not included memories of her father: it sounds like he was a truly amazing man, and I can understand how his death would leave a gaping wound in those who love him. show less

Deeply personal reflection - maybe better suited to an article? but beautiful, authentic, sharing of Adichie's experience on the unexpected death of her father. That his death happened during, though not because of, the pandemic exacerbates the situation - she is in America and her family is in Nigeria. "Grief is a cruel kind of education. You learn how ungentle mourning can be, how full of anger." (6) "We don't know how we will grieve until we grieve." "A friend sends me a line from my novel: "Grief was the celebration of love, those who could feel real grief were lucky to have loved." (51) "How is it that the world keeps going, breathing in and out unchanged, while in my soul there is a permanent scattering?" (12) She also does a show more lovely job of painting her father as a person - no exhaustive biography, though the little she shares would indicate one would be worthwhile. Instead it is little moments that stick with her and defined their relationship. "It was the wholeness of him that formed me, but it was also these incidents, slice by slice." (31) "The need to proclaim not merely the loss but the love, the continuity. I am my father's daughter. It is an act of resistance and refusal: grief telling you it is over and your heart saying it is not: grief trying to shrink your love to the past and your heart saying it is present." This short treatise leaves the reader feeling grateful for the eloquently worded shared emotion that helps elucidate our own. show less