By Zerline Hughes Spruill

C’mon, Eileen!

En el rincón de la memoria, you were our very first friend in La Paz, Baja California Sur — in all of Mexico, for that matter. While driving across the country, we found your posting looking for someone to pet-sit your four fur babies, and we thought it was destiny. We were headed to La Paz by way of Washington, D.C., and needed a place to stay, which is why we’d signed up for a TrustedHousesitters membership. You were raring to meet sooner rather than later, and so was I, so we scheduled a phone call on June 2, 2025, at 3 p.m. La Paz time and 4 p.m. Wyoming time, which is where we just happened to be driving through when the time approached.

We stopped in a shopping center parking lot to take the call, and your voice was fun and loud. You were honest and matter-of-fact. You were only our second pet-sitting interview, so we hadn’t yet mastered all the questions to ask or what to prepare for. Nonetheless, you chose us on the spot, and we were elated to secure our very first pet sit.

We were still quite a ways from Mexico. We had three days before arriving in California, where we planned to recuperate from the drive and meet up with our daughter to lend her our truck. We had seven whole days in California before leaving the United States to begin what was originally planned as a four-month Mexican adventure.

You wanted to see us almost as soon as our plane touched down in Baja California Sur on June 10. We met in person for the first time on June 14. We weren’t scheduled to watch your dogs until the end of July, but you wanted to lay eyes on us, as the old folks say. We had no idea what you would look like, which made the meeting even better. When we arrived at your doorstep, we hugged like we’d known each other for years. You welcomed us into your home and told us to find a seat while you made us gin and tonics on the rocks with lime. You immediately won over Reuben’s heart with that offering. I am not a gin girl, but I wanted to be polite. I am so glad I didn’t decline, because it was delicious and refreshing, considering the week’s mid-90s temps.

You were like a grandmother or aunt, but better, because you served us liquor. You were candid and even cussed a bit. That’s when you won me over. We met Pancho, the dachshund who licks for sport; Bicho, the finicky terrier mutt who covers himself in blankets; Sweetpea, the young escape-artist cat; and Griselda Rebecca, the senior cat who takes nips at anyone because she doesn’t want to be bothered.

You were a California girl, too — from the coast — so we had my home state in common before we had much of anything else. You are also fluent in Spanish, which meant you could talk with your English-learning students in their own language, stand up for yourself in the turf wars over your home, chat easily with your housekeeper and, later, coach me on how to get my Mexican driver’s license.

And then you wanted to meet up again on June 27, this time for tacos. First gin, now tacos — your treat? We were officially friends after only two meetings. You asked if we could take you to the airport for your summer trip, and we politely declined. We had not yet driven in Mexico and didn’t want to risk an accident or pay off a police officer for whatever infraction he could think of. We also didn’t want to deal with the authorities confiscating your car on our way back from the airport. Now that we’re used to driving in Baja Sur, a year later, perhaps we overthought it, but we wanted to be safe rather than sorry. You also took us to the grocery store. I was impressed at how fast you moved through that place. You beat us back to your car, too! I thought about how my mom wasn’t as mobile as you. I got a bit sad and thought, if only Mom had relocated somewhere peaceful like you did, she’d be as happy and free as you.

You left on the first thing smoking — er, flying — on July 19, and that’s when we moved into your home with your four babies. We sent you photos and videos just about daily. You shared antics from your airport travel and sent photos of your summer vacay.

The day before you came home on July 27, I burned your antique credenza. Apparently, the incense holder I found in the credenza drawer was super thin, and the incense cone burned through the holder and onto your cherry-wood surface. I wanted to melt through the floor and disappear. The mark was minimal, but I could see it. You’d shared your pride and joy in your furniture — the bureaus, dressers and hutches you’d painstakingly brought from California over several trips with your late husband decades ago. After googling for 30 minutes how to restore such a blemish, I tried my best to repair what I had done. I told Reuben what happened and said we were done for. Our future pet sitting career was trashed, I thought.

You came home the next day, exhausted from the long flight and the long ride home. As we all sat in your living room with the pets surrounding you, we walked you through the chores and responsibilities we’d carried out in your absence. And then I confessed to my arson. I sweated a little. Maybe a lot.

You popped up to see the damage and simply said, “Well, things happen.” You followed that up by saying Maria, your housekeeper, might be able to restore it. A weight lifted, and I was grateful. I’m sure you were pissed, nonetheless. We left minutes later. Three days after that, we boarded a plane bound for our third pet sit in three weeks’ time, this time in a different Mexican state: Guadalajara, Jalisco.

We kept in touch with a few texts. And then it came: you asked us back — twice. For your Thanksgiving travels in November, and for Christmas. Of course we said yes. You didn’t hate us! As a matter of fact, we came to depend on you. You let us keep our stuff at your home because, somehow, despite claiming the title of “Afrominimalists,” we overpacked for our four-month trip. You also let us use your address when it came time to get an apartment in December. I don’t know too many people who would agree to those things. But you did. And we are forever grateful to you.

When we moved to your neighborhood, we visited you often throughout the first quarter of 2026. On one of those visits, you mentioned seeing doctors about a lump near your arm. You were nonchalant about it, so we matched your energy. Then we took another break from La Paz to go to Oaxaca. We kept texting, sharing photos of our latest pet sit, and then one day, you suggested hopping on the phone on April 21. We told you Reuben had some medical issues and had lost sight in his right eye. You told us you’d been visiting the doctor’s office, too.

On May 6, you texted to say your sister was visiting, which was “a surprise of a life time,” you said. Reuben and I celebrated the news. We didn’t understand what that visit meant. I just remember telling you when we’d return to La Paz, and you ending that day’s thread with “Oh we’ll have stories, that’s for sure.”

You hearted my photo drop on May 15, with no comment. I’d shared the aftermath of Reuben’s eye surgery and how I’d never seen him wear sunglasses until after it. I talked about the delicious flavors of Oaxaca. I told you we’d gone to see “Michael,” the Michael Jackson biopic with the Black residents of Oaxaca City. I basically wrote an essay. You didn’t respond. I texted again three days later, and that’s when you told us.

I sent you a voice message June 10, saying we’d just landed in La Paz. You wrote back from the chemo room, with your sister by your side, saying you weren’t up for a visit until the evening of June 12, at your home. When we came, your head was wrapped in a turban, and we met your sister, Swami Vimalananda. Two days later, we moved from the neighborhood we shared to El Centenario. Our six-minute walk to you became an 18-minute drive. You joked, “Why the hell would you move all the way out there?”

I returned solo on June 26. You showed me your hand, bruised from failed IV attempts during chemotherapy. You were in pain. I invited you to go to El Triunfo with me for tea, crumpets and a pianist to celebrate my birthday week. I had no idea you, too, were a pianist. You accepted with such excitement!

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Save my free spot

I saw you July 6, when you let me use your address to apply for my Mexican driver’s license. This time, your turban was off. Your hair was gone. A few days later, you canceled our July 12 tea time because you were worried about the hourlong drive in your condition.

We tried for the next month to get together. One day you were at the beach. Then you had plans with your friends Chet and Susie. Then you had another chemo appointment. I was just happy it sounded like you were still enjoying life, surrounded by friends and still prioritizing your health. I went to visit my mom in Los Angeles, and you praised my efforts to check in on her. I got off the plane Aug. 3 and planned to visit you. You replied to my text saying you’d had emergency surgery. “Visit if you wish,” you said.

We did, but you were sleeping. And you didn’t look good. Before Reuben and I were nearly escorted from the hospital for wearing shorts and flip-flops (the traditional La Paz uniform), your friend Sonix took down our names and said she’d let you know we’d come by. You texted us later, and I was relieved. You told us to “make another stab” at visiting you. That was Aug. 5. I asked, “When shall we put our pants and church shoes on?” You just hearted it. No response.

You were still in the hospital on Aug. 12. That’s when you answered Reuben’s “how are you” text with “Alive. No one should have to experience this.” Something inside of me broke. I cried. Then I got mad. But I didn’t acknowledge your response. Instead, I asked if I could sneak in a taco or bring a favorite blanket. You declined.

On Saturday, Aug. 22, your sister, a Hindu monk I had met just that one time, texted me. I’m so glad she and I exchanged numbers back in June. We took an immediate liking to each other, but of course we did — she’s your sister.

Her text: “Hello Zerline. I’m in La Paz because Eileen is dying, she had a perforated bowel during her chemotherapy treatments and then her heart had issues. She is on life support.”

Shit. It’s always the good people — the ones who feel like family but share no DNA with me — who leave in such a slow, painful way. My sister from the Big Sister program, Asia, died of ALS in June 2025. Miss Beth, my other octogenarian friend and surrogate grandmother to my kids, was taken by dementia and age, I guess. I learned of her death this year — a year late — which hurt even more.

Swami’s text went on to ask for our help rehoming your pets — the babies who brought us together. Anything for you because you did anything for us. Genuinely. We love you. I made Canva posters and shared them on WhatsApp and in numerous Baja Sur Facebook groups.

C’mon, Eileen! C’mon, Higher Authority! This woman regularly took the bus to the airport, traveled through several time zones on planes, zipped up and down the streets of La Paz in her crossover vehicle, tried new La Paz restaurants with friends and took cooking classes, all while still teaching English in her home. Why cancer?

My heart aches. I just texted your sister to get an update. She said you died more than a month ago on September 12. Again, I found myself in a position where I felt left out; no one told me! We were still in Mexico, but no one told us. Your sister also wrote, “She was a Mexican at heart. That is where she truly found her home.”

I feel the same, Eileen.

During this Día de Muertos, I honor you . Since relocating to Mexico, I’ve come to learn about this national observance, which UNESCO added to its list of humanity’s intangible cultural heritage in 2008. It calls the holiday Mexico’s “Indigenous festivity dedicated to the dead.” Communities build an ofrenda, or an altar, and fill it with the things their loved ones appreciated so the souls of family, friends and even pets can find their way back for a visit and truly celebrate their lives.

For your ofrenda, four stuffed animals stand in for Pancho, Bicho, Sweetpea and Griselda Rebecca, wherever they’ve landed. You’ll also find an English textbook, for every student who learned in your home, and a set of keys to your double-locked fortress of a home in La Posada, because you trusted us with it almost from the start. I’m pouring out a little gin for you, and I’ll set a glass on the ofrenda, too. I’m still not a gin girl, but for you, I’ll make the exception.

We love you, Eileen. Rest well. Sigues en nuestros corazones