An Academic Grief Observed

In A Grief Observed, C.S. Lewis attempts to reconcile with the loss of his beloved wife. It is a brief, honest, sometimes cutting but not entirely unashamed account. The latter feature is what makes the work so interesting and meaningful. Lewis describes how in one moment he needs to be surrounded and coddled; he wants to be asked how he is doing. In another moment, he wants nothing less. He is aware of the difficulty this creates for those around him, with his friends and family having to anticipate his mood, while working through her own grief. Reflecting on this, Lewis instead seeks solace in nature and returns to the places he once visited with his wife. This, too, is only a partial solution; since grief has no solution. That is why it is grief. 

With my mother being a nonconformist minister, I grew up with the Chronicles of Narnia and their bold Christian imagery. That said, I didn’t know much about C.S. Lewis’ biography, apart from that he frequented Oxford haunts with J.R.R Tolkien, and I’d never heard of A Grief Observed. Even if I had, I probably would’ve remained preoccupied with the Voyage of the Dawn Treader, bashed by violent waves. It was only when we experienced something similar (if it is ever truly similar) to Lewis, that I began to read his writings on grief. 

In August 2024, we lost my younger brother - Isaac. It was in a car accident. Isaac had received his GCSE results only weeks before and would’ve started a music production course at the local college only weeks after. I try to remember the person instead of the incident. 

You find ways to honour them - so we set up a dedicated music prize through Isaac’s old school, as part of remembering his musical talent. We hope it continues to enable those with the same aptitude and interest in music to grow in a way he couldn’t. Together with my father, we walked the West Highland Way, scattering Isaac’s ashes as we went. Friends, family and even some colleagues joined us.

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At this point, you might think this is too much for a personal blog, especially one that usually deals with my research.

I would’ve agreed with you a few weeks ago. My work persona - to be all Carl Jung about it - was what I retreated into in the immediate aftermath of our loss. I worked a solid day, writing funding bids, articles and marking, before collapsing as soon as I got through the door. My work and home life were kept separate for a reason and I was fortunate enough to be able to put those structures in place. My family, partner and colleagues gave me appropriate space, despite it also being difficult for them.

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Why has my thinking changed? Why am I writing this now?

On August 14th, the academic community lost Jason Arday and a conversation around plagiarism in the workplace became one concerning how the British media has retained its shameful capacity to hound, harass and tear people down. In the wake of such events, I could write an overly sweet tribute, or attempt to equate my loss with the Arday family’s. This would bring me, and this post, into the same realm as those on LinkedIn, who are all too happy doing so. The loss of Arday wasn’t entirely what sparked this post. It did, however, blur my home - grieving - persona and my work identity. I do not want to draw similarities (there are very very few), although there is something in experiencing grief privately and then witnessing it play out in the public academic space. 

The outpouring of tributes observed for Arday is likely familiar to anyone who has faced tragic grief. People approach you, convinced that they have found the precise word cocktail to suddenly ease your grief; whether you asked them or not.

Some highlights for you, observed after a reception we gave Isaac at his old school: 

    “He’s with the angels now.” He is. Yet, this portrays an all too peaceful end. In truth, it was a pretty violent rupture from the earth. 

    “I don’t know how you cope.” You just do. What else is there?

    “It’s just so sad.” Oh. I’m very much aware.

Of course, these comments were interspersed by more nuanced conversations, a lot of them beginning or ending with ‘I don’t know what to say’. I’m very sympathetic toward that, I mean what do you say? 

We have a caricature of grief and a caricature of those grieving. That the immensity of feeling leads people to completely fall apart. You do fall apart but often piece-by-piece. You then slowly try and build yourself up again. Then a bit of you falls away once again. As the sports commentator and former gymnast Gabby Logan once said, reflecting on her own brother’s loss as a teenager - ‘You learn to make friends with the grief.’ You turn your face to it at times; at other times, it is simply too much.

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What is an Academic Grief Observed?

Well - I know what it isn’t. It is not found in the snippets of conversation I laid out, presumptions or false equivalence. 

It is attending a vigil. 

It is reflecting on the fact that more colleagues, students and peers than you might initially think have experienced tragic grief. Not necessarily a loss, but a violent - traumatic - rupture. A few months after we lost Isaac, my father was approached by an academic colleague. She too had lost a son and described herself as an ‘orphaned parent’. He took this on as a helpful label and continues to use it. I remember him saying how he never realised, after all we only know so much about what is happening in each other’s lives. 

It is in recognising that sometimes academic work is a relief. I am privileged to sit with other researchers’ ideas, perspectives, findings and contributions as a vocation. Sometimes letting someone else’s voice wash over you is what you need. At present, I am researching 19th century Spiritualism and the way seance-goers received forms of automatic writing, which mediums presented as being from relatives deceased. I hadn’t anticipated coalescing my research and grief, I wasn't even aware that I had until friends pointed it out. For now, it’s been helpful. 

An Academic Grief Observed is also in the small things. When I returned to work, our Operations Manager let me know that one of the staff rooms, a miniscule almost cupboard-sized space, had been booked out for me all week. If I found it too much, I was welcome to shut myself away for a while. I never needed to, but the fact it was there was a huge source of comfort. 

Lastly, and back to C.S. Lewis’ original point, let grieving colleagues come to you. In my experience, there is a definite moment in the wake of a tragedy, where you need to be scooped up. Once, buying a bunch of apples from Tesco proved too much and, at points, replying to a single email appeared a Herculean task. Your energy just goes, zapped from you in an instance.

So - make the teas; make the coffees. 

Now that the low hum of long-term grief has taken hold, which never truly dissipates, I’ll come to you. 

Oh. And I won’t be posting this on Linked - blummin - In.