Dale “Ironside” Murphy couldn’t get out of his chair on Thursday afternoon. He was undergoing chemotherapy for stage four lymphoma, and this was his 36th time getting it. Dale was 68 years old and had been sick for approximately a year. His brothers in the Iron Wolves Motorcycle Club helped him go to County Medical Center every week. They were usually around him. Every Thursday, one or two of them would put on their gear and ride with him, staying by his side as the poison flowed through his veins.
The medical personnel had gotten used to the Iron Wolves by this point. The Iron Wolves were tough-looking guys with old leather coats and thick boots. They were always quiet, respectful, and protective of their brother. On Thursdays, nurses would joke that the cancer ward had its own police force.
This Thursday, though, was different. Even though there was a hefty curtain between Dale’s treatment area and the rest of the facility, the sound of a child screaming could be heard. Not crying. Screaming.
It was the kind of sound that made you think you were about to die. It was full of pain, dread, and feeling powerless. It didn’t stop for twenty minutes. Then there were thirty. Then there were 45.
“Try to block it out,” Snake murmured softly as he sat next to Dale and glanced through a magazine without reading anything.
Dale couldn’t, though. He understood too much about pain, whether it was in his body, mind, or spirit. He closed his eyes, took a long breath, and stated quietly, “That kid is in pain.”
The snake gazed at him. “Not our problem, brother.” You’re not even halfway through your drip yet.
But Dale was already taking the IV needle out. The nurses raced over to stop him, but he gently waived them off. His legs shook when he stood up. His body didn’t like it. His back hurt. But he had a plan.
He asked a nurse softly, “Where is the kid?”
They brought him to the pediatric ward, which was three rooms away.
Seeing that crushed his heart.
The little boy, who was just two and a half years old, was thrashing around in his mother’s arms. His body was stiff, and his face was crimson and soaked with tears. He was afraid and had his hands clinched. His hospital gown was twisted from moving about. His screams were real, not fake. His cries were deep and scary, and they emanated from his gut. He was afraid he was going to die and that no one could help.
Jessica, his mom, looked like she was going to cry. She hadn’t slept at all. Her hair was tied back in a messy ponytail, and she had dark circles under her eyes. She was crying quietly and telling her son to calm down, but it didn’t work. Marcus, the dad, looked sad and was having trouble holding it together. Two nurses and a pediatric resident stood still next to them. All of the treatments, including medicine, rocking, and even moderate sedation, had not worked. The kid was too scared and overwhelmed to accept any of the attempts to make him feel better.
His name was Emmett. He had been admitted three days prior with a nasty respiratory disease that made him have a lot of fevers and trouble breathing. He was scared of the IV, the tubes, the apparatus, and most of all, being away from home.
He hadn’t slept in nearly three days.
Dale came in after that.
He looked just like the stereotype: big, with a beard, a leather vest over a black thermal shirt, combat boots, old pants, and an IV port still taped to his arm. He was bald from chemotherapy, and his left hand shook a little. He looked like the kind of person you’d cross the street to avoid. But when he spoke, he sounded like a man who had been through a lot and loved a lot.
“Ma’am,” he said softly as he stood in the doorway, “I know I look bad.” But I raised four of my own. There are eleven grandchildren. And sometimes kids just need someone who isn’t their mom or dad.
Jessica wasn’t sure what to think as she glanced at him. She looked at her husband. The nurses’ station was where everything happened. No one moved. No one said anything.
She nodded sleepily.
Dale slowly crouched down, letting his joints relax until he was at the same level as the crying child. He didn’t try to reach out. They didn’t talk at first. Let Emmett see him. The boy yelled, but he never looked away from the motorbike.
Dale finally said, “I brought something,” and he dug into his pocket. He pulled out a little silver chain with a wolf pendant on it. “This wolf is lucky for me.” I’ve been through some scary situations with you. I thought you might want to hold it.
He put it in his palm.
At first, Emmett just yelled harder. But then he looked at the charm for a moment. His voice hiccupped. He blinked. Then, slowly, a tiny hand reached out and grabbed the wolf.
Dale didn’t move. Not saying anything. He began to hum gently and steadily. This is not a good tune to sleep to. Not a song. It was only a deep, resonant hum, like an engine operating quietly far away.
And in some sense, that was enough.
It took a full twenty minutes. Then thirty. Emmett then fell asleep on Dale’s lap, clutching the wolf charm tightly in his hand as if it were his life.
Dale didn’t move for the next six hours.
Jessica tried to bring Dale back, but he shook his head. “Give him some time to sleep.” For once, let him be safe.
At that point, she sat close to them. And cried.
Marcus brought coffee and waited at the window, quietly watching.
Some nurses arrived and went, and some of them were crying. Some of them took silent images to remember, not to share online. One nurse said softly, “He’s been the calmest he’s been since he got here.”
Emmett’s body was totally relaxed by the third hour. He drooled a little on Dale’s shirt. Dale smiled and pushed the boy’s hair back.
Dale’s legs were numb and his back aching after the fifth hour. But he didn’t do anything.
Later, Dale remarked, “He needed this more than I needed chemo.”
When Emmett finally woke up, he sat up and glanced about with blurry eyes. “Doggy?” he asked.
Dale softly corrected him, adding, “Wolf.” “But now he’s yours.” You kept him safe.
Jessica held Dale so tightly that it hurt his ribs. “I don’t know what to say.”
He whispered, “Don’t say anything,” as he slipped the wolf charm in her palm. “Love your son.”
Two weeks later, Dale got a sketch with crayons in the mail. A big stick figure with a beard was holding hands with a small one. There was a wolf that had been written next to them. The letters that said “Thank you, Mister Wolf Man” were not straight.
Dale put it next to the drawings his grandchildren made on the fridge.
He didn’t think he was a hero.
But for one weeping toddler, one tired mother, and one hospital that needed a little reminder of how humans are connected, he was.
