I went back to Lily’s room and found Tommy crying as he played. This huge, terrifying-looking biker with a spider web tattoo on his neck, tears streaming down his face as he sang “You Are My Sunshine” to my dying baby.
“I had a granddaughter,” he told me between songs, never stopping playing. “Bella. She died of SIDS at ten months old. I never got to sing to her. Never got to say goodbye. When the chaplain called and said there was a baby here who needed music…” He couldn’t finish.
Marcus took over the song while Tommy composed himself. “We all lost kids,” Marcus said quietly. “Robert lost his son in Afghanistan. I lost my daughter to leukemia. We formed this club to honor them. To be there for other parents going through hell.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
“Because this isn’t about us,” Robert said, making the teddy bear dance for Lily. “This is about making sure this beautiful little girl doesn’t spend a single second of her last days in pain or fear.”
Lily’s breathing got worse as the night went on. The death rattle started—that horrible sound that means the end is near. But the bikers kept singing. Kept playing. Their voices hoarse, their fingers wrapped in bloody bandages, they kept going.
At 3 AM on the third day, Lily opened her eyes wide. Looked right at me. Reached for me. I picked her up, careful of all the tubes and wires, and held her against my chest.
The bikers started singing “Amazing Grace.” All three of them together. Their voices harmonizing perfectly despite the exhaustion.
“Thank you,” I whispered to my baby. “Thank you for fighting so hard. Thank you for being my daughter. Mommy loves you so much. It’s okay to let go. It’s okay to stop fighting.”
Lily took one last breath against my chest. And then she was gone.
The music stopped.
The silence was deafening. After twelve hours of continuous music, the silence felt wrong. Empty. Final.
Tommy stood up slowly, his legs shaking from sitting so long. He walked over and kissed Lily’s forehead. “Ride free, little angel. No more pain.”
Marcus and Robert did the same. Three massive bikers saying goodbye to a tiny baby they’d sung to death.
“We’ll stay for the funeral,” Robert said. “If you want us. We’ll make sure she’s not alone.”
They did stay. And they brought their entire club. 47 bikers showed up to honor an eighteen-month-old baby. They carried her tiny casket. They sang “You Are My Sunshine” at the graveside. They made sure the world knew that Lily Martinez mattered.
But what destroyed me—what still destroys me—is what they did after.
They set up the Lily Martinez Music Fund. Every year, they do a massive charity ride to raise money to provide music therapy for dying children. They’ve raised over $200,000 in the two years since Lily died. Hundreds of children have had music therapy in their final days because three bikers sang to my baby.
Tommy, Marcus, and Robert still visit me. They bring flowers on Lily’s birthday. They check in on Mother’s Day. They make sure I know I’m not alone. That Lily isn’t forgotten.
Last month, Tommy called me. “Sarah, there’s a baby at the hospital. Brain cancer. Parents are alone. She won’t stop crying.”
“Go,” I said immediately. “Sing to her. Don’t let her die in pain.”
“Will you come with us? The parents… they might need someone who understands.”
I met them at the hospital. Watched them transform another family’s worst nightmare into something bearable. Watched them sing another baby to peace. Watched them break their own hearts all over again to spare someone else’s child from suffering.
Die baby heette Hope. Ze leefde nog zes dagen. De motorrijders zongen elk uur van die zes dagen. Toen ze stierf, glimlachte ze.
Dit is wat echte bikers doen. Ze verschijnen als iedereen anders wegloopt. Ze staan voor het ondraaglijke. Ze zingen baby’s naar de hemel. Ze maken van hun eigen verdriet troost voor iemand anders.
Mijn dochter stierf terwijl ze naar drie motorrijders luisterde die haar in slaap zongen. Ze stierf zonder pijn. Zonder angst. Zonder alleen te zijn.
De meeste mensen krijgen engelen als ze sterven. Mijn baby kreeg drie motorrijders met gitaren en gebroken harten en stemmen vol liefde.
Ze had zich geen beter kunnen wensen.
