The biker they call Monster makes dying children laugh by riding a tiny pink tricycle down hospital halls

The biker they call Monster makes dying children laugh by riding a tiny pink tricycle down hospital halls. I’m Sarah Mitchell, the new hospice director, and I watched this 6’5″ tattooed man with a gray beard pedal past my office while eight bald children in wheelchairs chased him, screaming with joy.

Children who have days left to live.

“Who is that man?” I asked the nurse.

She smiled. “That’s Robert ‘Monster’ McGraw. He’s been coming every Tuesday for nine years. Ever since his grandson died here.”

I watched him crash the tricycle on purpose. Watched him sprawl dramatically on the floor while the children piled on top of him, laughing. This massive man covered in skull tattoos letting dying kids use him as a human jungle gym.

A little girl tugged my sleeve. She was maybe six, bald from chemo. “Are you going to make Monster leave?” Her eyes filled with tears. “The last director tried to ban him because parents said he looked scary.”

My heart stopped. “What?”

“She said his tattoos frightened people. That men who look like that shouldn’t be around children.” The girl started crying. “But Monster isn’t scary. He’s the only person who doesn’t look at us like we’re already dead.”

That’s when I saw the folder on my desk. “Complaints Regarding Volunteer Robert McGraw – URGENT.”

Twelve parents wanted him banned. Twelve formal complaints about his appearance, his tattoos, his motorcycle. “That man looks like a criminal.” “I don’t want someone covered in tattoos near my dying daughter.” “His appearance gives my son nightmares.”

But underneath those complaints was another stack. Forty-three letters from families whose children had died here.

“Monster sat with my daughter for six hours the night she died. He held her hand and sang to her. He made sure she wasn’t afraid.”

“My son stopped speaking after his diagnosis. Then Monster came. They played with Hot Wheels and my son laughed for the first time in three months.”

“Robert McGraw gave my daughter joy in her final days. He brought his motorcycle to her window and revved it because she loved the sound. He made her feel cool instead of sick.”

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I found Monster in the playroom drawing on paper with the children gathered around him. He was showing them a phoenix tattoo on his arm.

“You know what a phoenix is?” His voice was surprisingly gentle.

A boy in leg braces spoke up. “It’s a bird that dies and comes back to life.”

“That’s right, buddy. Dies in fire and gets reborn from ashes. Stronger. More beautiful.” Monster tapped his chest. “I got this after my grandson Tommy died. Because even though I can’t see him, he’s not really gone. He lives here in my heart.”

A little girl with a feeding tube asked quietly, “Will someone remember me like that?”

Monster’s eyes filled with tears. This huge, terrifying-looking man started crying in front of eight dying children.

“Sweetheart, I’m going to remember you. Every single one of you.” He pointed to the blank space on his chest. “When you go to heaven, I’m going to get a star tattooed here with your name. So you’ll always be with me. So you’ll never be forgotten.”

The little girl smiled through her tears. “Really?”

“Really. I promise.”

I stood there sobbing. This was the man parents wanted banned?

Later, Monster knocked on my office door. He looked terrified. “Ma’am, I heard there were complaints. I’ll stop coming if you want. I don’t want to cause problems.”

“Tell me about your grandson,” I said.

His face transformed. “Tommy. He was seven when he died. Brain cancer. He spent his last six months here, terrified of dying. Scared of being forgotten.”

Monster’s voice cracked. “One day I wore my vest and his eyes lit up. He said, ‘Grandpa, you look like a superhero.’ So I told him stories about riding. About freedom and adventure. Made him forget he was dying.”

“Tommy’s last words were, ‘Grandpa, when I die, I’m going to ride the biggest motorcycle in heaven. I’m going to be a biker like you.'” Monster wiped his eyes. “I promised I’d come back. That I’d tell stories to other dying kids. That I’d make them feel like superheroes instead of victims. That was nine years ago. I’ve sat with sixty-three children as they died. Got sixty-three stars tattooed on my chest. And I’ll keep coming until they remove me.”

I pushed both folders across my desk. “These parents want you banned. These families want you to stay.”

Monster stared at the letters, hands shaking.

“You’re going to keep coming every Tuesday,” I said. “You’re going to keep riding that ridiculous tricycle. And I’m going to handle the parents who have a problem with it. Because their discomfort is not more important than their children’s happiness.”

Monster broke down crying. “Thank you. You have no idea what this means.”

Over three weeks, I met with every parent who complained. Showed them videos of their children laughing with Monster. Asked them all one question:

“What’s more important? Your child being happy in whatever time they have left? Or them conforming to your expectations of what appropriate looks like?”

Most withdrew their complaints. Three families transferred their children to different hospices rather than have Monster around.

I watched those children cry about leaving. About not seeing Monster anymore. That broke my heart.

But forty families stayed. Forty children got to spend their final days with a biker on a tricycle who made them laugh.

Monster brought his whole club one Tuesday. Ten massive bikers playing tea party with little girls. Having Hot Wheels races with boys. Reading stories. Looking terrifying. Being gentle.

One Tuesday, five-year-old Sophia arrived. Terminal heart failure. Hours left to live.

Her mother was sobbing. “Please don’t let her die alone. Please don’t let her be scared.”

Monster sat with Sophia for eighteen hours. Held her tiny hand. Told her stories about heaven. About his grandson Tommy waiting for her.

“Tommy’s going to teach you to ride, sweetheart. He’s the best rider in heaven. And he’s been waiting for a new friend.”

Sophia smiled. “Will you come to heaven too someday?”

“Someday, baby girl. And when I do, you and Tommy are going to show me all the best places to ride.”

Sophia died peacefully with Monster holding her hand. No fear. Just peace.

Her mother hugged him afterward, sobbing into his vest. “Thank you for making her last hours beautiful.”

Two weeks later, Monster showed me his newest tattoo. A star over his heart that said “Sophia Marie Henderson.”

“She gets the special spot,” he explained. “Because right before she died, she told me she loved me. Said I was like the grandpa she never got to have.”

A reporter wrote a story about Monster without his permission. It went viral. Donations poured in. Other bikers wanted to volunteer.

Monster was furious about the attention. “This isn’t about me.”

But a letter arrived from Oregon. A father whose son was dying of leukemia. “My son loves motorcycles. Would Monster write to him?”

Monster started a correspondence with seven-year-old Nicholas. Sent him photos. Stories. A tiny leather vest.

When Nicholas died four months later, forty local bikers flanked his casket. He was buried in his vest.

Monster got another star tattooed: “Nicholas ‘Nitro’ Chen – Heaven’s Newest Rider.”

That’s when I understood. This wasn’t about one biker at one hospice. This was about changing how we treat dying children.

Monster started “Tommy’s Riders.” Bikers who volunteer at children’s hospices nationwide.

There are now chapters in thirty-eight states. Hundreds of bikers visiting thousands of dying children. All because one grandfather kept a promise.

Monster is seventy now. Still riding. Still visiting every Tuesday. Still pedaling that tricycle while children chase him.

His chest is covered in one hundred forty-seven stars. One hundred forty-seven children who died knowing they mattered.

Last week, a mother approached me. Her daughter had just been admitted with stage four neuroblastoma.

“Is it true? About Monster?”

I nodded. “He comes every Tuesday.”

“Thank God,” she cried. “Because if my baby has to die, let her die laughing. Let her die feeling special. Let her die knowing someone will remember her.”

That’s what people don’t understand. Monster doesn’t save these children’s lives. He can’t.

But he saves their deaths. Makes them beautiful instead of just tragic. Makes them about love instead of just loss.

Judge him by his appearance if you want. Call him scary. Inappropriate. A liability.

But the children know the truth. They know he’s an angel disguised as a biker. They know his tattoos are maps of all the children he’s loved.

And when he finally gets to heaven, one hundred forty-seven children will be waiting. Ready to take their friend Monster on the greatest ride of all.