That Thursday afternoon, Dale “Ironside” Murphy couldn’t get up from his recliner. He was having chemotherapy for stage four lymphoma, and this was his 36th treatment. 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 always there for 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.
At this point, the medical staff was used to the Iron Wolves. The Iron Wolves, who wore old leather coats and thick boots, were always quiet, respectful, and protective of their brother. On Thursdays, nurses would joke that the cancer ward had its own security guards.
But this Thursday was not the same. Even though there was a thick curtain between Dale’s treatment area and the rest of the building, the sound of a child wailing broke the silence. Not crying. Shouting.
It was the kind of noise that made you think you were going to die. It was full of pain, dread, and feeling like you couldn’t do anything. For twenty minutes, it didn’t stop. Then thirty. Then there were forty-five.
“Try to block it out,” Snake murmured quietly as he sat next to Dale and glanced through a magazine without reading anything.
Dale, on the other hand, couldn’t ignore it. He understood too much about pain, whether it was physical, mental, or spiritual. He closed his eyes, took a long breath, and stated in a low voice, “That kid’s hurting.”
Snake stared at him. “That’s not our business, brother.” You still have a long way to go with your drip.
But Dale was already pulling out the IV needle. The nurses raced over to stop him, but he gently waived them away. His legs shook when he stood up. His body didn’t like it. He had a hurting back. But he had a plan.
He asked a nurse in a gentle voice, “Where’s the kid?”
Three rooms down, they transported him to the pediatric ward.
He was heartbroken by what he witnessed there.
The child, who was just two and a half years old, was moving around a lot 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 because his hospital gown was twisted from moving about. His screams were real, not just tantrum screams. His screams were deep and scared, coming from his gut. He was afraid he would die and that no one could help.
Jessica, his mother, looked like she was going to cry. She hadn’t slept at all. She had dark circles under her eyes and her hair was in a messy ponytail. She was softly crying and telling her son to calm down, but it didn’t work. The father, Marcus, looked sad and was having trouble keeping it together. Two nurses and a pediatric resident stood still nearby. None of the methods—medication, rocking, or even moderate sedation—worked. The kid was too scared and too stressed to accept any of the attempts to help him feel better.
His name was Emmett. He had been in the hospital for three days with a nasty respiratory disease that made him have multiple 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 almost three days.
After that, Dale came in.
He looked just like the stereotype: big, with a beard, a leather vest over a black thermal shirt, combat boots, faded jeans, and an IV port still taped to his arm. His left hand shook a little, and he was bald from chemotherapy. He looked like someone you would cross the street to avoid. But when he spoke, it was clear that he had gone through a lot and loved even more.
“Ma’am,” he said softly from the doorway, “I know I look awful.” But I took care of four of my own. There are eleven grandkids. Sometimes kids just need someone else besides their mom or dad.
Jessica looked at him and wasn’t sure what to think. She looked at her husband. The scene took place at the nurses’ station. No one moved. There was silence.
She nodded, but she was sleepy.
Dale slowly bent down, letting his joints relax until he was at eye level with the crying kid. He didn’t reach out. They didn’t talk at first. Let Emmett see him. The kid yelled, but he never looked away from the motorcycle rider.
Dale finally said, “I brought something,” and he pulled something out of his vest pocket. He pulled out a little silver chain with a wolf pendant on it. “This wolf is my lucky one.” I have been through some scary situations with you. I thought you would want to keep it.
He held it in his hand.
At first, Emmett just yelled harder. But then he looked at the charm for a moment. His voice hiccuped. He closed his eyes. Then, slowly, a small hand reached out and grabbed the wolf.
Dale didn’t move. Not speaking. He began to hum quietly and steadily. Not a good music to sleep to. Not a song. It was only a low, deep hum, like an engine running silently in the distance.
And in a way, that was enough.
It took twenty minutes. Then thirty. Emmett then fell asleep in Dale’s lap, clutching the wolf charm like it was his life.
For the next six hours, Dale didn’t move.
Dale shook his head as Jessica asked him to get her son back. “Let him sleep.” For once, let him be safe.
Then she sat close to them. And wept.
Marcus brought coffee and stood quietly by the window, watching.
Some nurses came and went, and some had tears in their eyes. Some of them took silent images to remember, not to post online. “He hasn’t been this calm since he got here,” one nurse murmured gently.
Emmett’s body was entirely relaxed by the third hour. He drooled a little on Dale’s shirt. Dale smiled and pushed the boy’s hair back.
After the fifth hour, Dale’s back hurt and his legs were numb. But he didn’t move.
Dale then joked, “He needed this more than I needed chemotherapy.”
When Emmett eventually woke up, he sat up with his eyes still blurry and looked around. He asked, “Doggy?”
Dale gently corrected him, adding, “Wolf.” “But now he’s yours.” You kept him safe.
Jessica grabbed Dale so tightly that his ribs hurt. “I don’t know what to say.”
He said, “Don’t say anything,” as he gave her the wolf charm. “Just 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 little one. There was a wolf written down next to them. The letters that stated “Thank you, Mister Wolf Man” weren’t straight.
Dale put it on the fridge next to his granddaughters’ drawings.
He didn’t think he was a hero.
But for one crying child, one tired mother, and one hospital that needed a little reminder of how people are connected, he really was.