The Old Machine Shop
Submitted by Courtney Coffman
The Old Machine Shop In the early fall of 2007, at 25 years old, I had been a nurse for four years and a hospice nurse for one and a half years. Now, at 43, I remain devoted to my profession as a hospice nurse. This story of The Old Machine Shop is one of the reasons why I am so dedicated to this work. At this early stage in my hospice career, being part of this death event had a powerful impact on me. After returning home at 3:00 a.m. from this on-call visit, I couldn’t sleep. The events of that night—and the way I felt about each detail—kept running through my head. So I started writing… My steps felt heavy as I walked slowly into the old farmhouse. As I approached the newly widowed wife, I reached out to take her trembling hand. She already knew the words I was about to say but did not want to hear them. In a low, calm, sympathetic voice, I said, “This part is not easy.” Before I could continue, she squeezed my hand and managed to hold back tears long enough to say, “We will be in the Old Machine Shop. Please join us when you can.” After watching the widow, her young son and daughter, and a few other close family members walk out through the squeaky screen door, I turned and made my way back to his study. Entering the room, I knelt beside my patient. Cool to the touch, but warm to my heart, I held his hand. He looked peaceful. A comforting breeze came through the window by his bed.
I knew the family had intentionally placed his hospital bed in his study, next to his window, so that in the final bedbound days of his life, he could be surrounded by familiar things and gaze out at the only land he had known for 53 years. I thought to myself: How amazing—born in this home and died in this home. Soon, the mortuary transporter from the funeral home walked into the room and, in a rushed tone, asked, “Are you ready?” He loudly and carelessly pushed his gurney next to the bed. Without a word of compassion, he pulled my patient’s limp, lifeless body onto the gurney.
When he looked up at me, I could tell he heard my thoughts just by the expression on my face. I was thinking, Have you no heart at all? This man deserves dignity and respect. Before he could cover my patient’s face, I slipped a beautiful purple flower from a vase by the bed and placed it gently between his chest and the blanket. Knowing I would be one of the last to see this man’s face, I wanted the flower to represent the respect he so deserved. After watching the transport van disappear down the dusty gravel drive, I looked around the now-empty house, knowing it was time to go to the Old Machine Shop. I cracked open the squeaky screen door, and instantly, a gust of wind lifted my hair and took my breath away. I walked across the lane toward the shop. As I approached the open doorway, I could barely make out the faces inside. They stood huddled together in dim light, gathered around Dad’s tractor. I was greeted with a warm, grateful hug from the widow. She thanked me for everything I had done. I stayed a while longer—as “part of the family”—listening to the priceless stories they shared about their dad, about his life, and the dreams they had lost. I began to understand why the Old Machine Shop was their chosen place to gather in grief. This was his world—where he had lived, worked, loved, laughed, cried, and, ultimately, died. His old wooden rocking chair now sat empty. His tools and farm equipment lay still. But he was still here—in spirit, in memory, in love. This was where they would come to remember Dad.
Feeling it was time for me to go, I shared my condolences once more and slowly made my way to my car, filled with a sense of peace and comfort. As I drove down the gravel drive, I glanced in the rear-view mirror. I could see the shadows of the family, still huddled close, comforting one another. As I turned the corner and lost sight of the farmhouse, I felt no worry. I knew they would get through this—together—with one another and with the memories, both old and new, found in The Old Machine Shop.