Biker Who Hit My Son Visited Every Single Day Until My Son Woke Up And Said One Word

I looked at my son. At the tubes. At the machines. At Jake’s still face. “No,” I whispered. “Stay. Please stay.”

So he did. And slowly, I started staying too. The three of us—Marcus, Sarah, and me—we took shifts. We read to Jake. We played his favorite songs. We told him about his baseball team winning games without him. We told him his dog missed him. We told him to come home.

On day twenty-three, Marcus brought his whole motorcycle club. Fifteen guys in leather vests stood in the hallway and prayed for my son. They couldn’t all fit in the room, but they wanted Jake to hear their bikes. So they went to the parking lot and revved their engines in unison—a thundering chorus of sound that echoed through the hospital.

“Jake loves motorcycles,” Sarah told them, crying. “He’s always asking about them. If he can hear anything, he’ll hear that.”

On day thirty, the doctors started talking about long-term care facilities. They said Jake might not wake up. They said we needed to prepare ourselves.

I broke down in the hallway. Marcus found me there, sobbing, and he just sat down next to me. He didn’t say anything. He just sat there while I fell apart.Continue reading…