A biker came to my wife’s grave every week, but I didn’t know who he was. I watched him from my automobile for six months. The same day. Same time.
Every Saturday at 2 PM, he would ride his Harley to Sarah’s grave and wait there for exactly one hour.
He never brought flowers. I couldn’t see them say a thing. He just sat on the ground close to the grave with his head down.
The first time I saw him, I was afraid he could have the wrong grave. The cemetery is large. People get confused. But he came back the next week. And the next one. And the next one.
I got angry. Who was this person? How did he know my wife? Why would he visit her grave every week for an hour when some of her family members couldn’t even go once a month?
Sarah died fourteen months ago. Breast cancer. She was 43 years old. We had been married for 20 years. Two kids. A good life. A normal life.
There was nothing in her past that would have made her a biker. She was a nurse for children. She volunteered at church. She drove a van. She was protesting by putting an extra shot of espresso in her cappuccino.
But the rider was upset about her loss, as if he had lost someone significant. I could tell because his shoulders shook at times. The way he would put his hand on her grave before he left.
It was driving me crazy. After three months, I couldn’t take it anymore. I got out of my car and walked over to him.
He heard me coming. Didn’t look back. He only kept his hand on the grave of Sarah.
“Excuse me,” I said. I didn’t mean for my voice to sound that harsh. “Hi, I’m Sarah’s husband. Can you please tell me who you are?
For a long time, he didn’t say anything. After that, he got up slowly. He was large. Six feet four inches tall and three hundred pounds. His beard went all the way down to his chest. His arms are covered in tattoos. He looked like the kind of guy Sarah would have crossed the street to stay away from.
But his eyes were red, which meant he had been sobbing.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice. “I didn’t mean to get in the way.” I just wanted to say thank you.
“Thanks for what?” “
He gazed at Sarah’s grave and then back at me. “Your wife saved my daughter’s life.” I came here to tell her that Kaylee is still alive because of what she did.
I glanced at him and replied, “I don’t get it.” Sarah never indicated she knew someone with a kid named Kaylee.
“She didn’t know her very well. She probably didn’t even give it a second thought. He wiped his eyes. “Can I tell you what happened? You have the right to know.
We sat down right there, with me on one side of Sarah’s grave and him on the other. He told me a story that broke my heart and then put it back together.
He was a mechanic named Mike. He was 47 years old. His daughter Kaylee had leukemia when she was nine.
He continued, “The treatment cost a lot.” “Insurance paid for some of it, but we had co-pays and deductibles and all this other stuff that added up quickly.” I worked 80 hours a week. My wife had two jobs. We sold our home. We sold everything we could. But it wasn’t enough.
They didn’t have enough money to keep Kaylee’s treatment going; they were $40,000 short. The hospital said they would work with them, but “work with them” meant payment plans that would take decades. In the meantime, Kaylee needed care right now.
“I started asking everyone I knew for help. Family. Friends. My motorcycle club put on events to make money. We got about $8,000. Not even close. His voice broke. “I was going insane. I couldn’t save my baby since I didn’t have any money.
One day, Mike was at the hospital with Kaylee. She was getting help. He was in the corridor where she could see him, trying not to cry. Sarah was at work that day, and she wasn’t even Kaylee’s nurse, but she saw Mike lose it.
“She wanted to know if I was all right. I lost it. Told her everything. I told her I was going to lose my daughter because I was a loser who couldn’t get $40,000. He shook his head. “Your wife heard everything. She didn’t think I was a bad person. They didn’t look at me like I was a dangerous biker. She just listened.”
“Miracles happen sometimes,” Sarah added. Mike would always remember that. Don’t give up hope.
Two days later, the hospital called Mike and his wife. There had been a “mistake in the administration.” Someone had paid for all of Kaylee’s remaining treatments without her knowing. All of it. The hospital said they couldn’t identify who the donor was, but they did indicate that they had paid for all of Kaylee’s care.
Mike said, “We were in shock.” “We couldn’t believe it.” We asked everyone. I contacted the hospital fifty times to find out who did it. They didn’t want to say. The donor asked to stay anonymous on purpose.
Kaylee was done with her treatment. She did a good job. She became better. Three years later, doctors told her she didn’t have cancer anymore.
Mike said, “For years we tried to figure out who saved her.” “Years.” It was like seeking for a ghost.
Mike was looking through some old medical papers six months ago. He found a receipt that he had never seen before. There was a number on it that connected it to something.
He called the hospital’s billing department. He said he was hunting for the person who had given him money to save his daughter’s life years previously. The person on the other end of the line said they couldn’t provide me that information. Mike, on the other hand, continued going. Begged. He said that this man saved his daughter’s life and that he just wanted to say thank you.
The billing clerk made a mistake in the end. “I’m sorry, but I really can’t give you her information,” she added.
Her. It was a woman.
Mike pushed even harder. The cashier, who was angry, said she couldn’t say anything else and hung up. But the payment reference code had Sarah’s first name, Mike.
He started to look into it. Found out which nurses were working at the hospital that day. There were three persons with the name Sarah. One of them had moved to California. One had stopped working and was traveling across the country. Sarah Patterson was the third one. My wife.
“I found her on social media. I saw images of her with her family, you, and your kids. Mike’s voice was unsteady. I knew her right away. She was the nurse who chatted to me in the corridor that day and told me not to lose up hope.
He tried to get in touch with her. I sent her a note on Facebook, but it stayed unread for weeks. Then he sent another one, and then another one. All he wanted to do was say thank you and let her know that Kaylee was alive and doing well, and that it was all because of what she had done.
He found out why she wasn’t replying after that. A Google search led him to her obituary. Sarah Patterson, who was 43, died of breast cancer. Her husband and two kids are still living.
“I lost it right there at my computer,” Mike said. “The woman who saved my daughter’s life wasn’t there anymore. And I never got to say thanks.
He began to visit her grave. Every Saturday. Same time. He would sit with her and talk about Kaylee. Tell her what the girl she assisted did.
“Kaylee is now sixteen,” he added. “She made the honor roll. She wants to be a doctor.” “She’s alive, beautiful, and everything a dad could want.” He was crying all over his face. “That’s because your wife gave $40,000 to a stranger. To a motorcyclist she didn’t know. She saw a dad pleading for help and gave it to him.
I was crying too. It was hard because I didn’t know. Sarah never told me. Fifteen years ago, we had saved up $40,000 to fix up the kitchen. Sarah said she had spent money on “something important,” but she wouldn’t tell me what it was. We fought a lot over it.
I was really angry. I told her she was being careless by making significant money decisions without informing me first. She just said, “I did what I had to do.” One day you’ll understand.
I never got it. Until now.
Mike remarked, “I’m sorry I’ve been coming here without saying hello.” I just wanted her to know that what she did was significant. That it changed everything.
I couldn’t say anything. I just shook my head. Mike stood up.
He added, “I’ll stop coming if it bothers you.” “This is your family’s space.” I don’t want to be in the way.
I quickly said, “No.” “Please keep coming.” That would be wonderful for her. She would want to know what Kaylee is up to.
Mike nodded his head. He went back to his bike. He then turned around.
“I only chatted to your wife for five minutes, but she was one of the best people I’ve ever encountered. That should tell you all you need to know about her.
He rode away. I sat there for another hour. I was simply chatting to Sarah. I told her I was sorry for being so angry and that I finally understood.
I went back to the cemetery at 2 PM the next Saturday. Mike was already there. I brought two chairs for the grass, and we sat next to each other. He told me everything about Kaylee, including her hopes and dreams, how she now works as a volunteer at the children’s hospital, and how she wants to help kids like she was helped.
It’s been going on for six months now. Every Saturday. Mike and I, together with Sarah, converse occasionally and sit in silence other times.
Last week, Mike took Kaylee with him. She is gorgeous, healthy, and alive. She cried and put flowers on Sarah’s grave.
“Thank you for saving me,” she whispered softly. “I won’t waste the life you gave me.”
Mike is no longer just a random biker; he’s part of the family. He takes care of my kids, helped my son fix his car, and brought me groceries when I was too depressed to drive to the store. His wife makes cookies for my daughter.
We are now united. Sarah wrote this. By giving up something. By love. People in the cemetery must think it’s unusual that the widow and the biker sit together at a tomb every Saturday. Let them think what they want.
I know what truly occurred. My wife sacrificed everything she could to save a child she didn’t know. Since then, the youngster has been honoring her memory every week.
That’s not weird; it’s nice.
That’s who Sarah was, and I’m going to make sure everyone knows it.
