WHEN LOVE CROSSES BACK

WHEN LOVES CROSSES BACK
A Día de los Muertos Story of Grief, Presence & Survival
Personal Story by Elizabeth Blake-Thomas

​Chai was my four legged daughter, my soulmate, best friend, partner, and plus one. She had been with me for thirteen years, a constant source of love, comfort, structure, and purpose. She passed unexpectedly from a heart attack, and it shattered my world in ways I could never have imagined. She had been my companion through every part of my life, the one who made my routines meaningful and the one I built my days around. Losing her was not just losing a pet, it was losing a piece of myself, a part of my identity, my reason to get up, the foundation I had unknowingly built my life upon.

I had been all prepared for October 31st to begin prepping for Día de los Muertos and to have a full weekend of powerful connection. I was casually flicking through Instagram on the 27th when I saw that Pets Día de los Muertos was actually on October 27th. I suddenly felt confused and looked at the calendar; that was today.

Crap. What was I supposed to do?

Chai wasn’t 'a pet', but I couldn’t bear the idea of missing the moment she might cross over and come back to see me. I couldn’t imagine her turning up at the toll on the bridge to check in and finding no photo waiting for her. (You would only understand this reference if you had watched Disney’s Coco.)

So I decided to begin my week of celebration immediately.

I didn't know where to start. This wasn’t my plan; I thought I had four more days. So the research began as soon as I got home, and I started building the ofrenda, the altar filled with her memories, flowers, candles, and food and water for her journey.

I decided to walk to Whole Foods to buy her food: a carrot, broccoli, and zucchini. We still had uncooked lentils in her memory bag from the last time I fed her.

I hadn’t bought these items since June 27th, the last day I cooked for her. It felt awful. I didn’t know whether I could handle it. Something so simple held so much meaning; I had done it nearly every day, and she had loved it. As I walked around Whole Foods, I remembered how she would have waited with me, knowing it was all for her.

There were no marigolds, so now what?

I purchased the food and tried another grocery store. They had marigolds right at the entrance in a pot. I would have to try to keep them alive. In all honesty, I wasn’t very green-fingered. I still couldn’t believe I had managed to keep Chai and my daughter alive for so long.

When I got home, I sat on my bed, unable to do anything. Creating the ofrenda meant acknowledging that Chai wasn’t here. Of course my rational brain already knew that, but taking things from her memory bag, cooking her food, and placing everything on the altar made her physical absence undeniable.
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​I hadn’t opened the bag since we returned home. I hadn’t been brave enough to wear the pajamas inside, the ones I wore last when she was alive and then again when I held her after she passed.

First I had to decide where the ofrenda would go. Then I had to choose her photo. Which one? The pressure felt overwhelming. I didn’t want to get it wrong. I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted to feel like she was here and wanted to come back to see me.

What if she didn’t visit? What if she was happy where she was? Was this like Father Christmas and the reindeer, where I would wake up and see she had taken a bite of her treat, eaten her food, or drunk her water? How would I even know she had come? I needed a plan for the best possible ofrenda for her. Something she would want to return to. So I began the way I always did: with a list.

Do the washing up so I could prepare her food. Cook Chai’s food. Smell the food and be present, then watch Disney’s Wicked. Create the space and place her photos, food, water, paw print, and marigolds on the altar. Paint the rainbow bridge for her to cross.

I laid everything out, cried, cried some more, and began speaking to her. My whole body ached; it felt like physical pain. The smell of Chai’s food filled the house. I couldn’t believe she wasn’t here and that I was actually doing this. She should still have been here. That thought repeated over and over.

I ate a little of her food, and it reminded me of her sitting in the kitchen, waiting for me to feed her. Her red lentils and carrots always made her poo orange. I lit a couple of candles and sat with her. My daughter found the blanket we last used when Chai had been on my bed; it still smelled like her. It felt like a wonderful, unexpected gift.

Saying her name out loud, I began to paint and write, all in the name of Chai.

This was my plan for the week:

Day 1: Create the ofrenda and paint her rainbow bridge.

Day 2: Collect more marigolds and print photos of the other souls joining Chai’s altar. Write my articles about the experience.

Day 3: Paint Chai all over the rainbow bridge doing her favorite things, on the VW bus, on the boat with me, on the red carpet, in her bag, etc.

Day 4: Work on completing my book My Dog Is Dead and So Am I.

Day 5: Go to the beach and stare at the ocean. Read and write. Finish Before the Coffee Gets Cold, an incredible book about grief.

Day 6: Watch the beautiful grief-filled film The Ballad of Wallis Island and prepare for the hardest day of the week, Saturday. Memories always flooded in and replayed the day she died. I booked an event at Holloway House for DDLM, even though I didn’t know anyone attending.

Day 7: Be kind to myself and allow whatever feelings come. Be grateful for Chai and everything she taught me.

It felt like a solid, cohesive plan. I always needed a plan; otherwise, I couldn’t handle the emotions that came with unpredictability. A little interlude:

I had two autistic meltdowns that week, one in CVS and one in the supermarket. I had recently received my adult autism diagnosis, which had been life-changing. Before that, I had never understood why something like not getting the photo machine to work or being unable to find crème brûlée would make me cry and feel overwhelmed.
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I had decided to put three of our closest friends on the ofrenda as well: Millie, Isabella’s best friend who passed at 100; Miriam, the grandmother of one of our closest friends; and Matthew, my daughter’s godfather. I knew they were all hanging out with Chai in heaven. I had their photos and favorite foods on my list too. It all became too much, trying to get everything “right.” 

I wasn’t a perfectionist unless it came to Chai. 

After a few tears and leaving the stores, I recovered and continued building the best ofrenda I could. I knew the week would be emotional. I knew there would be triggers. This was just one of them. 

Re-reading my book My Dog Is Dead and So Am I, my memoir of the last two years, originally titled Life, Live, Loss: Lessons From My Dog, was brutal. The book had been meant to explore anticipatory grief, and then everything changed so suddenly. Everything I had written over the previous sixteen weeks was hard to revisit. I didn’t remember the moments exactly. Time had created a veil over the person I had been. It felt heartbreaking, almost like an out-of-body experience. I remembered what I felt, I could name the emotions, and I remembered kind of what I did, but not as though I had been the one doing it. It was like being one step removed. 

I couldn’t believe I was still here, that I had made it to that point. Time moved slowly, yet somehow flew by. I had never believed I could live without her, not even for a day. 
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It was my first time in 24 years being alone. From ages 24 to 34, I had my daughter every minute of the day. From 34 to 47, I had Chai. I was never alone. So this felt surreal. 

​I sat and talked to Chai. Even though she wasn’t here in physical form, I still felt her presence. I took a bath and lit her candles.

My drive to Malibu the next day was never wasted. My mind always opened up there, Vivaldi playing, the water getting closer, and ideas beginning to flow again.

For most of the week, I felt like I was watching my 47-year-old self from the outside. Reassessing who I was. What I liked. What I wanted in my life. Learning how to understand life again. It might have sounded like an existential crisis, and maybe it was, but I preferred to think of it as an awakening. A reawakening. A rebirth. I felt like I was experiencing things for the first time. I gained clarity on how I wanted to live the next 47 years.

Chai had taught me so much and continued to teach me. My life has been incredible. I had finally reached a place of calm: Chai, my daughter, and me, financially stable and in a home we loved. When Chai’s presence disappeared, it felt like that life ended. We went from three to two. I had to learn how to be brave enough to live a new life. A different one, not better, not worse, just different.

The week absolutely changed me.

Especially when, in the middle of painting, I absentmindedly dipped my brushes into my cup of tea and swirled them around before noticing. After that, I never again kept my painting water next to my tea.

Every day Chai wasn’t here in physical form, I changed a little more. But that week forced me to fully feel it. To acknowledge it. I couldn’t run anymore.

People asked how I was dealing with everything. The only answer I had was this:

I sat with it.
I allowed myself to feel it.
I wrote it, painted it, created it.

It didn’t need to be shared. It could stay just for me.
But I needed to feel it, and then let it move out of my physical body. ∎