Every week, a biker came to my wife’s grave, but I had no idea who he was. For six months, I watched him from my car. Same day. Same time.
He would ride his Harley to Sarah’s grave every Saturday at 2 PM and wait there for exactly one hour.
He never brought any flowers. I couldn’t see them say a thing. He just sat on the ground next to the grave with his head down.
I feared he might have the incorrect grave the first time I saw him. The graveyard is big. People become mixed up. But he came back the week after that. And the next one. And the next one.
I got mad. Who was this person? How did he know my wife? Why did he go to her grave every week for an hour while some of her family members couldn’t even go once a month?
Fourteen months ago, Sarah died. Cancer of the breast. She was 43 years old. We had been married for twenty years. Two children. A good life. A typical life.
She had never had anything in her past that would link her to a biker. She worked as a nurse for kids. She helped out at church. She drove a minivan. Putting an extra shot of espresso in her latte was her way of rebelling.
But this motorcyclist felt sad about her death, like he had lost someone important. I could tell by the way his shoulders shook at times. The way he would put his palm against her grave before he departed.
It was making me insane. I couldn’t stand it anymore after three months. I got out of my car and walked over to him.
He heard me coming. Didn’t look back. He just kept his hand on Sarah’s gravestone.
“Excuse me,” I said. I didn’t mean for my voice to sound so hard. “My name is Sarah’s husband. Could 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 bloodshot. He had been crying.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured in a low voice. “I didn’t mean to get in the way.” I just wanted to say thanks.
“Thank you for what?”
He stared at Sarah’s grave. Then they looked at me again. “Your wife saved my daughter’s life.” I came here to inform her that Kaylee is still alive because of what she has done.
I looked at him. “I don’t get it.” Sarah never said she knew someone with a daughter named Kaylee.
“She didn’t know her well. She probably didn’t even think about it. He cleaned his eyes. “Can I tell you what went down? You have a right to know.
We sat down right there. I was on one side of Sarah’s grave. He was on the other side. He told me a story that made my heart break and then put it back together.
Mike was his name. Forty-seven years old. A mechanic. When Kaylee was nine, she was stricken with leukemia. She was his daughter.
He said, “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 claimed they would work with them, but “work with them” meant payment schemes that would take decades. In the meanwhile, Kaylee needed help right away.
“I began asking everyone I know for aid. Family. Buddies. My motorcycle club held events to raise money. We got roughly $8,000. Not even close. His voice broke. “I was going crazy. I couldn’t save my newborn child because I didn’t have any money.
Mike was at the hospital with Kaylee one day. She was getting help. He was in the hallway where she could see him, trying not to cry. That day, Sarah was at work. She wasn’t even Kaylee’s nurse, yet she watched Mike lose it.
“She wanted to know if I was okay. I lost it. Told her everything. I told her I was going to lose my daughter because I was a failure who couldn’t come up with $40,000. He shook his head. “Your wife heard everything. She didn’t think badly of me. They didn’t stare at me like I was a dangerous biker. She just listened.”
Then Sarah said something that Mike would always remember: “Miracles happen sometimes.” Don’t lose hope.
The hospital called Mike and his wife two days later. There had been a “mistake in the administration.” Someone had paid for all of Kaylee’s remaining treatments without her knowing. Every last cent of it. The hospital claimed they couldn’t say who the donor was, but they said that all of Kaylee’s care was now paid for.
Mike remarked, “We were in shock.” “We couldn’t believe it.” We asked everyone. I called the hospital fifty times to find out who did it. They wouldn’t say. The donor deliberately asked to stay anonymous.
Kaylee finished her treatment. She did well. She became better. Three years later, doctors said she was cancer-free.
Mike remarked, “For years we tried to figure out who saved her.” “Years.” It was like looking for a ghost.
Six months ago, Mike was browsing over some old medical paperwork. He discovered a receipt he had never seen before. It had a number that linked it to something.
He called the billing department at the hospital. He said he was looking for the donor who had saved his daughter’s life years before. The person on the other end of the line claimed they couldn’t share that information. But Mike kept pushing. Begged. He said that this gentleman saved his daughter’s life and that he simply wanted to say thank you.
In the end, the billing clerk messed up. She said, “Sir, I really can’t give you her information.” Sorry.
Her. It was a lady.
Mike pushed harder. The cashier, who was upset, claimed she couldn’t say anything else and hung up. But the payment reference code had Mike’s first name: Sarah.
He began to look into it. Learned which nurses had been at the hospital that day. There were three people named Sarah. One of them had migrated to California. One had stopped working and was traveling across the country. The third one was Sarah Patterson. My wife.
“I found her on social media. Saw pictures of her with her family. With you. With your kids. Mike’s voice was shaky. I knew her right away. That day, she was the nurse who talked to me in the hall. The person who told me not to give up hope.
He tried to get in touch with her. I sent her a note on Facebook. It stayed unread for weeks. Then he sent another one. And one more. He only wanted to say thank you. Wanted her to know that Kaylee was alive and doing well, and it was all due to what she had done.
After that, he learned why she wasn’t answering. A Google search brought up her obituary. Sarah Patterson, who was 43, died from breast cancer. Her husband and two kids are still alive.
“I lost it right there at my computer,” Mike remarked. “The woman who saved my daughter’s life was no longer there. And I never got to say thank you.
He began to visit her grave. Every Saturday. Same time. He would sit with her and talk about Kaylee. Tell her about the girl she helped.
He said, “Kaylee is now sixteen.” “She made the honor roll. “She wants to be a doctor. “She’s alive, beautiful, and everything a dad could want.” His face was covered in tears. “That’s because your wife gave $40,000 to a stranger. To a biker she didn’t know. She observed a dad asking for aid and gave it to him.
I was also crying. Difficult. Because I didn’t know. Sarah never told me. Fifteen years ago, we had saved up $40,000. It was meant to be used to fix up the kitchen. Sarah told me she had spent money on “something important,” but she wouldn’t tell me what it was. We got into a big fight over it.
I was very mad. I told her she was being careless. Of making big money choices without asking me first. She just answered, “I did what I had to do.” One day you’ll understand.
I never got it. Up until now.
Mike said, “I’m sorry I’ve been coming here without saying hello.”” I simply wanted her to know that what she did was important. That it made everything different.
I couldn’t say anything. I just shook my head. Mike got up.
He said, “I’ll stop coming if it bothers you.” “This is your family’s space.” I don’t want to get in the way.
I answered hastily, “No.” “Please keep coming.” That would be good for her. She would want to know about Kaylee.
Mike nodded. He walked back to his bike. After that, he turned around.
“Your wife was one of the most wonderful persons I’ve ever met. I only talked to her for five minutes. That tells you everything you need to know about her.
He rode off. I stayed there for another hour. I’m just talking to Sarah. I told her I was sorry for being furious. Saying to her, “I finally get it.”
I went back to the cemetery around 2 PM the next Saturday. Mike was already there. I brought two chairs for the grass. We were sitting next to each other. And he told me everything about Kaylee. About her hopes and goals. About how she now works as a volunteer at the children’s hospital. About how she wants to help youngsters like she was helped.
It’s been going on for six months now. Every Saturday. Mike and I. With Sarah. We talk sometimes. We sit in silence sometimes.
Mike brought Kaylee with him last week. She is pretty. In good health. Alive. She grieved and put flowers on Sarah’s grave.
“Thank you for saving me,” she said softly. “I won’t waste the life you gave me.”
Mike is no longer just a random cyclist. He’s part of the family. He looks after my kids. I helped my son fix his automobile. Brought me groceries when I was too sad to go to the store. His wife makes cookies for my daughter.
We are now connected. Sarah wrote this. By giving up something. By love. People in the cemetery surely think it’s strange. Every Saturday, the widow and the biker sit together at a tomb. Let them believe what they want.
I know what really happened. My wife did everything she could to save a stranger’s child. And that stranger has been honoring her memory every week since he learned she was gone.
That’s not strange. That’s lovely.
That’s who Sarah was. And I’m going to make sure everyone knows it.