Our Notie Girl

A year ago today, I lost a lady that I adored as much as my natural grandmothers. Notie Bunch lived to the tender age of 97 and she was one of the most amazing women I've ever met.  A preacher's wife with a penchant for wine and dirty jokes: she was exactly who I want to be if and when I find my silver days.  She loved with a heart as wide as the open spaces between her heaven and this world. The very last time I saw her, she gave me an incredible gift, one of my young life's greatest lessons.

Notie was born in South Carolina and lived in Virginia and on the Eastern Shore of Maryland so naturally, she retained that sweet, southern accent to prove her roots.  Her voice was unmistakable.  When she called your name, you couldn't help but go running.  I loved to listen to her tell stories about growing up.  She was one of the only people I ever knew who actually used a Ford Model T car as a primary means of transportation and I was enamored with the story she used to tell about going out with her father to crank it up.  Literally.  Crank the car engine.  (As a child of the technology generation, this intrigues and baffles my electronically-inclined brain.)

She grew up, married a handsome young preacher named Harry Bunch, and had four children.  Photos of Harry and Notie from the 40s and 50s reveal a young couple that could have played in any number of Hollywood movies.  Harry's square jaw, dark hair, and deep eyes to Notie's coy smile, fashionable dresses, and slender figure.  When I said to her that I thought he was a good looking fellow, she grinned and quickly replied, "You bet he was!"  More than life itself, she adored that preacher man.

Together, they had two boys and two girls.  Their youngest daughter, Ginger, is my mother's best friend.  I have known Ginger for years and years, but it feels like she and her family have been in my life since the very beginning.  Maybe that's just how old souls work.  We felt like family (still do) and now I realize that's because we chose to be family.  

I have always known that we can learn a great deal from the older folks around us if we just stop and listen to them.  Notie was no different.  Once, out of sheer curiosity, I asked her who was the first President that she could remember.  Her answer: "Well," in that adorable drawl, "I think it was Coolidge!"  (Side note: Calvin Coolidge was our 30th President who served from 1923-1929.)  But her age was always just a number because I have never met a young person with half the zest for life that she held.  Even at 94, my Notie girl, as I affectionately called her, did shots of tequila with me on my 28th birthday.  The idea was jokingly suggested, but Notie piped up and said that for me, she'd do anything.  Stunned, I asked her if she really wanted to do that - I mean, tequila? At her age?  But she never batted an eye.  We poured the salt, shot the Cuervo, and bit the limes. I never took my eyes off of her. And, when we were done, she tossed her head back and laughed as everyone at my birthday party was caught up in an absolute state of shock, disbelief, awe, and hysterics.  She was like a little kid at Christmas.  She was bigger than life.

And there a thousand more stories just like it.  That was our Notie.  We adored her but not as much as she adored us.

She lived for years with Ginger and her husband, Gary.  But as Notie started to worsen and decline physically over the year, she was moved to a nursing home.  It was a decision that everyone dreaded but ultimately knew was coming.

Make no mistake: Notie continued to be the life of the party even there.  She always took the seat at the head of the table in the dining room so she could keep tabs on all her friends.  Her friends included a woman who chewed on a cell phone, another lady who constantly cradled a baby doll, a woman with part-time dementia, and a lady who was never without a tiara. Notie was the most lucid and so naturally she was their leader.  And after dinner, she would sneak a sip or two of wine that Ginger brought for her... with a doctor's prescription, of course.  She loved visitors and took great delight in regaling us with stories, which were usually a mash up of something old, something new, something a little smutty, and always something funny.

But each visit, our Notie got a little more frail, a little weaker.  Then, one afternoon in January of last year, I got a call from my mother.  Notie was in the hospital.  This was mostly likely her time and, if I wanted, I could come say good-bye.  I swallowed hard against the lump that was forming in the back of my throat.  I said I was on my way.

In the hospital bed, surrounded by blankets and beeping machines, my Notie girl looked so small.  I hugged and kissed Ginger, Gary, and my mother.  Go see her, they said.  They were smiling and crying.  I walked over to the bed and bent down to her so we could be as close as possible.  She was wide awake and as soon as we came eye to eye, the biggest smile broadened across her face. I reached down and found her hand.  And she said, in the strongest of whispers, "I love, love, love, love you."

"I love you too, Notie."

"I'm going home."

I pushed my forehead to hers so she couldn't see me cry, "I know."

And from there, we exchanged our whispered good-bye.  I stroked her forehead and ran my fingers through her snow white hair.  She never stopped smiling and I was so completely awe struck by her calm nature.  She wasn't afraid.  No, she was happy.  When I looked down at her again, all I could see was that my Notie was filled with serenity and peace.  How could I want anything else for her?

So, I gently squeezed her hand and kissed her forehead.  "Good-bye, Notie girl." And with that, I let go.  She passed a few days later.

But in my very last moment with her, Notie taught me something valuable - a lesson I will cherish.  I always knew I had a lot to learn from her, and at the end, I had to listen extra carefully, but I got it.  She was giving us the gift of letting go.  Notie understood where we were and she gave us the only thing she had left - peace.  I will never forget what it was like to see her that way: smiling, serene, and happy while living through the minutes of her last hours.  She wanted us to have the very best parts of her and we do... alive and well in our hearts and in our minds.

There is a great deal that the living can learn from the dying.  This is what I know now.  For Notie, it wasn't about the end or the sadness or the grief.  No, none of those parts.  It wasn't about the dying.  

It was about the living.