How Does 'Lily And The Octopus' Explore Grief And Loss?

The way 'Lily and the Octopus' handles grief is raw and real. It sneaks up on you like the octopus in the story—something you try to ignore until it’s impossible. The protagonist’s bond with Lily, his dog, mirrors how we attach to those we love, making her illness feel personal. His denial isn’t just about losing her; it’s about facing loneliness. The octopus becomes this monstrous metaphor for the creeping dread of loss, the way grief can feel like an invader. What sticks with me is how the story doesn’t offer tidy solutions. It shows grief as messy, cyclical, and sometimes absurd—like arguing with a hallucinated octopus. The book’s magic is in making you laugh through tears, especially in scenes where love outshines the pain.

Reading 'Lily and the Octopus' felt like dissecting grief layer by layer. The protagonist’s journey starts with avoidance—personifying Lily’s tumor as an octopus lets him distance himself from the reality of her mortality. This metaphor works because it’s so visceral; you can’t rationalize away a tentacled monster. His bargaining phase is heartbreaking, especially when he imagines epic battles against the octopus. It’s not just about saving Lily—it’s about reclaiming control when life feels chaotic.

The book’s middle sections dive into memory as both comfort and torment. Flashbacks of Lily’s younger days highlight what’s being lost, but they also anchor him to joy. The author nails how grief isn’t linear. One moment he’s furious at the octopus, the next he’s nostalgically recounting Lily’s obsession with Thursdays (a detail that’s oddly specific yet universal for pet owners).

The climax isn’t some grand victory—it’s surrender. Letting go of Lily means accepting the octopus can’t be defeated, only endured. The quiet moments afterward, like spreading her ashes, hit harder than any dramatic confrontation. It’s a masterclass in showing grief as a process, not an event.

This book wrecked me in the best way. Grief here isn’t a solemn march—it’s chaotic, ugly, and darkly funny. The octopus isn’t just a tumor; it’s every irrational thought during loss. Like when the protagonist blames himself for not noticing sooner, or when he rage-buys a boat to 'save' Lily. The absurdity makes it relatable. We’ve all fought invisible enemies when hurting.

What’s brilliant is how the story contrasts human and canine love. Lily lives utterly in the moment, while her owner spirals into 'what ifs.' Her simple joys—chasing tennis balls, barking at seagulls—become anchors. The book suggests grief isn’t just about missing someone; it’s about missing who you were with them.

The final act shifts from denial to gratitude. Remembering Lily’s quirks stops being painful and starts celebrating her. It’s not closure—it’s learning to carry loss differently. If you’ve ever loved a pet, this book feels like a shared language. For deeper dives into grief, try 'The Year of Magical Thinking' or 'Crying in H Mart.'