Off The Record
Biker Comforts Screaming Toddler For 6 Hours When No One Else Could
The toddler’s uncontrollable screams reverberated throughout the oncology ward while the motorcyclists were present for their brother’s last round of chemotherapy.
For the past nine months, Dale “Ironside” Murphy, 68, has been receiving therapy every Thursday for stage four lymphoma. In order to ensure that he never had to face the poison drip alone, his brothers from the Iron Wolves MC alternated between driving and staying with him.
However, on this specific Thursday, there was a change at the cancer ward of County Medical Center.
A kid was yelling.
Screaming, not crying. The wails are so agonizing and frantic that the mere sound of them hurts your chest.
Snake, Dale’s sibling, attempted to ignore it, concentrating on Dale’s pallid face while the chemotherapy seeped into his veins.
However, even Dale opened his eyes after yelling continuously for twenty minutes.
“That child is in pain,” Dale uttered softly, his voice feeble from the therapy.
Snake answered, “Not our business, brother.” “Pay attention to completing this.”
However, the yelling persisted. Half an hour. 45. One hour. Dale’s curtained section was hurried past by nurses. Physicians were summoned. Nothing was successful.
The yelling intensified.
Then they heard the voice of a young mother, broken with desperation and exhaustion:
“Please have someone assist him. There is a problem, but no one can identify it. It’s been three days since he last slept. Please.”
Dale withdrew the intravenous line.
“What are you doing, brother?” Snake quickly got to his feet. “You received treatment for an additional hour—”
Standing on wobbly legs, Dale declared, “That boy needs help.” “And I still have two working hands.”
Bears of the Blue Knights
Three doors down in the pediatric area, Dale discovered them. A young couple who might have been in their late twenties appeared to be in utter ruin.
Jessica, the mother, was attempting to hold a toddler who appeared to be two or three years old. The toddler was screaming so loudly that he was turning purple, bucking her arms, and arching his back. Marcus, the father, was holding his head.
Two nurses stood close by, appearing powerless. They had made every attempt. Distraction and medication. separate rooms. Nothing was successful.
Where an IV had been, the young boy’s arm was bandaged. His thrashing had twisted his hospital robe. Tears were streaming down his crimson face.
In the doorway stood Dale, a large, bearded motorcyclist wearing a leather vest. He was bald from chemotherapy and had an IV port visible in his arm. His eyes were gentle, but he appeared to be warmed over by death.
“Ma’am,” Dale uttered softly. I realize I appear frightening. However, I helped raise eleven grandchildren and raised four children. May I try, please?
Something in this biker’s face caused Jessica to nod as she glanced at this stranger—this sick, ominous-looking biker. She was too tired to give a damn.
Two days prior, her son was admitted due to a serious respiratory infection. He had been totally overtaken by the medical setting, the procedures, and the anxiety.
He simply passed out from tiredness and woke up screaming again, without really sleeping for three days.
Jessica’s voice broke as she said, “His name is Emmett.” He is 2.5 years old. This area terrifies him. of the medical professionals. Of all things. And I’m unable to I am no longer able to assist him.
Dale walked gently closer, allowing Emmett to see him. Even though he was still yelling, the boy’s gaze followed this stranger.
To put himself on the child’s level, Dale crouched down, his knees protesting.
In a deep, growling voice, Dale responded, “Hey there, little man.” “You’re having a terrible day, aren’t you?”
Reaching for his mother, Emmett let out a louder cry.
The biker then revealed his vest to him.
Dale tapped a tiny embroidered teddy bear on his leather vest and added, “This patch here means I’m part of a special crew that protects little warriors like you.”
Sort of, it was a lie. Years ago, one of his grandsons had requested the addition of the teddy bear patch. Dale was never brave enough to remove it.
Emmett hesitated. For a moment only.
His screams subsided into sobbing, but he was still crying. Curiosity softened his face.
Dale’s voice was calm and low, like if he were speaking to a puppy who was afraid.
“You must be exhausted, my friend. Do you want to be held for a while? I swear that I’m softer than I appear.”
After a brief period of hesitation, Jessica nodded and gave her son to her.
Dale was calm, although Emmett first resisted. He simply held the boy close to his chest and rocked slowly and steadily without bouncing, singing, or making an effort to divert attention.
For several minutes, the boy’s fists pounded at Dale’s vest. He writhed. Wept. then, like a deflated balloon, finally sank into the biker’s chest.
The yelling completely ended after fifteen minutes. With his small fist firmly gripping Dale’s vest’s bear patch, Emmett had dozed off.
Jessica started crying. Relief, but not the frantic sort. pure, appreciative release.
She muttered, “I have no idea what you did.” But I’m grateful. Thank you.
Dale simply grinned and softly brushed the boy’s hair back.
“A child needs to feel a heartbeat that doesn’t flinch sometimes.”
He spent about six hours holding Emmett in that position.
He was given a recliner by the nurses. Snake left a blanket behind, peered in, and simply nodded. Dale remained still.
Marcus eventually brought him some water. Being cautious not to wake him, Jessica massaged her son’s back. A nurse periodically checked on them, but they remained uninvolved.
The shrieking had stopped by the time Emmett awoke. Confused but calmer, he glanced around before lowering his head again.
The parents were given an update by the doctors. The infection was reacting favorably. It would take him another day or two, but things were improving.
Emmett cried faintly, but Dale kissed the top of his head as he got up to go.
“You’ll be all right now, little warrior.”
Before he could object, Jessica gave him an embrace. Her scent was a combination of tears and hospital soap.
In a whisper, she said, “You saved my baby.”
Dale said, “No,” with a slight crack in his voice. “I was saved by him.”
Dale looked like he had been through a war when he returned to the oncology unit. Snake looked at him but remained silent.
Emmett was moved to a new floor the next day. Dale was surprised to see them again.
However, there was a slight knock at the curtain during Dale’s last chemotherapy treatment two weeks later.
Emmett was the one. Jessica was wearing a small leather vest that she had fashioned from an old jacket. A small teddy bear patch was even sewn onto it.
The youngster carried something wrapped in tissue paper as he tottered inside.
Dale took it from him.
A tiny picture of the two of them, Dale and Emmett sleeping together in the recliner, was inside. Jessica must have used her phone to silently snap it.
It read, “To my first biker buddy,” on the back. I appreciate you keeping me composed when everything else was chaotic.
Dale rarely shed tears. But he did that day.
In the hospital parking lot, he gave Emmett a ride on his Harley. The youngster was giggling and his arms were spread out like airplane wings as they idled slowly in circles.
At their subsequent gathering, the Iron Wolves decided to honor Emmett as a member. gave him a vest, the name “Little Thunder,” and the assurance that he would always have family to look care for him.
Six months later, Dale died. calmly. in the house. At the end, a small honorary biker held his hand while he was surrounded by his children and grandchildren.
On Dale’s birthday, Emmett’s family still goes to see the Iron Wolves. They deliver cake. Hugs. Laughter.
And each time, Emmett dons his vest, which is sewn with the tiny bear patch but is now a couple sizes larger.
People you save can sometimes save you in return.
The strongest medication can occasionally be found in the form of a two-year-old with a good heart, exhausted lungs, and a scream that can shake the walls, rather than in a bottle or an IV bag.
Don’t turn your head away the next time you witness someone in pain. Perhaps all they need is a heartbeat that doesn’t falter.
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