I am sixty-two years old and have been riding for forty years, but nothing could have prepared me for what I saw in a hospital lobby one day. Sarah, a young mother, was holding her six-year-old daughter, Aina, who was bald, weak, and dying of cancer.
An administrator informed her she had to go because her insurance was “maxed out.” They wanted her to take her sick child back to the car where she had been living for months.
Something inside me broke. I went over, said hello, and informed the administrator that if they kicked this woman and child out, I would sleep in that hallway every night with two hundred bikers. Calm and quiet, but impossible to ignore.
Within minutes, my motorcycle club brothers showed up and filled the lobby with silent solidarity. A child-advocacy professional I knew also raced over to make sure Aina’s care would be paid for. The hospital backed down and let her in right away when they saw how much she cared and how many cameras were there.
Aina got a warm room, a comfortable bed, and the kind of care that every sick child should get. For the next twelve days, my brothers and I went to see her, brought her toys, told her stories, and tried to make her smile. Sarah eventually got help with her housing and other needs.
Aina told me she was going to meet my daughter Emily in heaven as she slipped away softly, with her mother holding one hand and me holding the other. Twenty-six years ago, Emily died of leukemia. When I heard Aina say it, it broke me and healed something in me at the same moment.
My club gave Aina the funeral she needed. We helped Sarah become back on her feet, pursue a new career, and start a new life. Today, she works as a social worker and helps families like hers while remembering her daughter.
People think that bikers are tough, dangerous, and difficult to get to know. But real riders look out for those who are weak. We speak out when others don’t. We don’t let a spreadsheet get in the way of helping a dying child. I met Aina two weeks before she died.
Those two weeks were full of comfort, dignity, and love, not dread in the back of a car. That’s all any kid should get. Aina, may you rest in peace. Now you’re with Emily. And neither of you is in pain anymore.
