Over the next two weeks, my brothers and I took turns visiting Aina. We brought her books, toys, stuffed animals. We told her stories about riding motorcycles. We made her laugh when she had the energy to laugh.
My club took up a collection. Raised $15,000 in four days. We got Sarah into an apartment. Small, but clean and safe. We furnished it with donations from club members’ families. Made sure she had a bed for when Aina came home.
Except Aina didn’t come home. Not to the apartment.
She died twelve days after we got her that hospital room. Died peacefully with her mother holding one hand and me holding the other. She’d asked me to stay. Said I reminded her of her daddy.
I’d known this little girl for less than two weeks and I loved her like she was my own.
At the end, Aina opened her eyes one last time. Looked at her mother. “Don’t be sad, Mommy. I’m going to meet Jack’s daughter in heaven. We’re going to be friends.”
Then she looked at me. “Tell Emily I said hi. Tell her thank you for sending you to help us.”
She closed her eyes and she was gone.
I’ve been to a lot of funerals in my life. But Aina’s was the hardest. Sarah had no family. No friends. It was going to be just her and a cheap casket at the county cemetery.
Until my club showed up. All two hundred members. We paid for everything. A real funeral with flowers and music. A beautiful casket. A proper burial plot. We made sure Aina left this world with dignity.
And we made sure Sarah knew she wasn’t alone. We set up a fund to help her get back on her feet. Helped her get job training. One of our brothers’ wives owned a bakery and gave Sarah a job. Another brother’s family invited her to every holiday dinner.
That was four years ago. Sarah still comes to our club events. She calls me every year on Aina’s birthday and on the anniversary of her death. We talk about Aina. We remember her. We make sure she’s not forgotten.
Last year, Sarah graduated from community college. She’s a social worker now. Works with homeless families. She helps them navigate the system that failed her and Aina.
And every time she helps a family, she tells them about the bikers who saved her daughter’s last days. Who made sure Aina died in comfort instead of in the back of a car. Who showed up when no one else would.
People see bikers and they make assumptions. They see the leather and the tattoos and the patches and they think we’re dangerous. Criminals. People to avoid.
They don’t see that we’re fathers and grandfathers. Veterans and volunteers. People who’ve lost and suffered and know what it’s like to need help and not get it.
The hospital kicked out the dying girl until this biker threatened to sleep in the hallway every night. And I would have. I would have slept on that cold floor for months if that’s what it took.
Because Aina mattered. Sarah mattered. And no policy or budget or bottom line is more important than making sure dying children are comfortable in their final days.
My daughter Emily has been gone for twenty-six years. But through Aina and the dozens of other kids my club has helped over the years, I keep her memory alive. I do for them what I wish someone had done for her.
And every single time I walk into a children’s hospital, I think about that terrified mother in the lobby holding her dying daughter. I think about how close Aina came to dying in a car. And I’m grateful I was there. Grateful I could help. Grateful I didn’t walk away.
Because that’s what bikers do. Real bikers. We protect the vulnerable. We stand up to injustice. We show up when everyone else walks away.
And we sleep just fine at night knowing we made a difference.
Even if that difference was just two weeks of dignity for a dying little girl who deserved so much more than this cruel world gave her.
Rest in peace, Aina. You’re with Emily now. And neither of you is in pain anymore.
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