My Husband’s Biker Brother Carried Him to Chemo Every Week for Six Months
The first time Ray carried Michael into the hospital, people stared. A massive biker, gray beard, leather vest, carrying a grown man on his back like a child. Security came over—then froze when they saw Michael’s pale face. He had stage four colon cancer. Chemo was his only shot, but the treatments left him weaker than I’d ever seen.
The hospital parking lot was a quarter mile from the clinic. Michael refused a wheelchair, insisting he could walk. But one March morning, halfway across the lot, he stopped. Legs shaking, face gray. “I can’t,” he whispered.
That’s when Ray showed up on his Harley. The wild younger brother, never close growing up, suddenly standing there. He crouched down. “Get on.”
Michael hesitated. “I’m not—”
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