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My friends must have carried us over to sit on the bed. Rachael fell into my arms. The rest became a blur for at least an hour. I was unable to even speak without hyperventilating, so as soon as Rachael was able, she called Stephen and Jessica.

I don’t know how she had the strength, but that is my daughter. She has never fallen apart on me when I needed her most.

At some point my friends called their oldest son, who was attending law school in LA. They were concerned that the paparazzi would soon be on the scene at the apartment building where Michael had lived. They asked their son, who was married, had a newborn at home, and was studying for his bar exam, to go and gather up Mike’s belongings so that nothing would be lost or taken in all the confusion. In an ultimate act of kindness, not only did their son get everything from Mike’s
apartment that belonged to him—he also drove it the four hours to Las Vegas, in the middle of the night, so that I would have it at home and there would be no tabloid photos of his belongings being removed.

Then I called Steve. I had to have my babies come home to be with me. I wanted to hold them all in my arms so badly, even though I had no idea how I was going to be able to tell them what had happened. Steve was so upset that he was speechless at first, but he promised me he would bring all the kids back to Las Vegas as soon as he could arrange it. He ended up driving them through the night to be with me. When they would wake up from dozing in the car and wanted to know what was wrong, Steve just said, “Your mom needs you tonight.”

When Donny got the news, he did what my family always does in a crisis. He rallied my brothers and said, “Our sister needs us. Meet me at the Provo airport in two hours.” Virl, Merrill, Jay, and Jimmy got ready to go with Donny. The other brothers lived too far away to make it to the airport. Jimmy told me later, “Even though it was my daughter’s baptism party, I couldn’t celebrate her life knowing you had lost your child.”

We had to call and wake my publicist, Alan Nierob, to help buffer the press once the news was out, which happened quickly. He was amazing in his response and very comforting. He began fielding phone calls that were coming and took immediate steps to deflect the paparazzi from invading the privacy of my kids.

Sometime after four a.m., my friends drove me to the house. I was exhausted and lay down on my bed and somehow managed
to doze off for a bit while waiting for my brothers to arrive. I fell into a dream state that seemed so real. I saw my mother walk up to Michael, who was standing alone. She cradled the left side of his face in her hand and asked, “Are you okay?” Michael nodded yes. Then she said, “Do you know where you are?” and Michael said yes. Then my sweet mother said, “Come with me now.”

In my dream, she took Mike’s hand and led him away. She was taking care of him. My little boy was safe with his grandma.

My tears woke me up. At first I couldn’t figure out if it was a dream or if I had really seen my son, and for a very brief moment, I actually forgot what had happened. Then the pain came back fully, but with a different intensity, because after the dream, there was an odd feeling of peace that surrounded the massive heartache.

I won’t write about when my little ones arrived home or how I told them about what had happened. My kids will forever have their own memories of that day and their own ways to process losing their brother. I want them to have their privacy about it. For the next two days, we stayed together, all in the same room, shedding many tears, sharing sweet stories, and riding out the relentless tsunami waves of grief.

My next memory is when my brothers arrived, and my little family and I sobbed in their arms until no more tears could be shed for a while. Being men of great faith, they gathered around me to offer up a prayer of comfort and blessings. There is no better path to healing for me than to have my faith that my family could lay this burden in the care of a loving Father in
Heaven’s arms and His beloved son, Jesus Christ, who not only atoned for our sins but for our deepest sorrows. I could feel to my core that He would sustain my family and me through the sad days ahead. Shortly after this, my friend’s son arrived by car from Los Angeles with all of Michael’s possessions, which were carried into my bedroom. I thanked him for sparing me the heartache of gathering his belongings myself, especially under the spotlight of the press. He wanted me to be aware of one thing he had found that he felt I should know about before anyone else. When he had entered Michael’s bedroom, he found a legal form open on the floor in front of my son’s backpack. It had been filled out, signed, and dated by Mike. It was the form to have his last name legally changed to Bryan. I know Michael left it there to be certain that it would be found and not overlooked, no matter what. He knew that his brothers and sisters and I would make sure to follow through for him on his wishes. My friend’s son had folded it up and put it in Michael’s backpack to bring to me. How blessed I was to have my friends with me and to be able to have my son’s privacy protected as much as possible.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to look at my son’s other belongings right then, so I went into the bathroom to wash my face and comb my hair. I didn’t want my younger children to be even more concerned, seeing how awful I looked, my face swollen and blotchy from crying. As I was running a brush through my hair, I had a powerful feeling that I was being directed to look through a certain box that had been brought from Mike’s apartment; I had a strong sense that he didn’t want it left where his
younger brothers and sisters might find it. I opened it to find Mike’s collection of CDs. I looked through the CD case and found quite a bit of music that I would never allow the younger kids to have. In a strange way, it gave me a sense of comfort that Mike might have directed me to his CD case to protect his siblings. It’s something he would have done.

After two days of family time, it was time to go to Utah to arrange for my son’s funeral with Jessica, Rachael, and Stephen. My son’s body was being transported from Los Angeles to a mortuary there, and Steve offered to drive me.

It was tough to leave my younger kids for a couple of days, but I knew that they were in loving hands with one of my best friends, who is like an aunt to my kids and provided the comfort that they needed, making toasted sandwiches, reading books, and playing board games. A day later, my oldest friend, Patty, who is also like an aunt to my babies, arrived to help ease the burden.

We left, with Jessica, at about eight p.m. We wanted to leave in the dark and arrive while it was still dark, because we had word that paparazzi were waiting to catch me leaving my neighborhood. Rachael rode with Stephen and had left earlier in the day.

Jessica had spent the last two days living up to her nickname “Angelic” from the moment she arrived at the house: getting meals organized, reminding me of phone calls that needed to be made, and bringing the serenity of routine back to the kids. She was now exhausted and slept on the backseat of Steve’s car the entire trip back to Utah. Steve and I talked for
hours about what to do with the information we had about Michael’s death.

Some of the people who knew and loved Michael thought that we should have the police track down the kids he was with the night he woke up under the overpass and started the downward spiral of depression. Some advised us to have them questioned and possibly prosecuted, especially since Mike’s cell phone contained text messages from one of them saying, “I’m sorry, Mike. We didn’t know.” I prayed long and hard about what to do. Were they to blame for my son’s death, or was it an impulsive and juvenile decision that went in a direction they could never have guessed? One investigator did speak to the young woman who had shown up with her friends to visit but felt he had no evidence that there had been any foul play that would result in death. A number of studies have shown that a majority of teenagers perceive themselves as invincible and feel that they can get away with all kinds of dangerous behavior, which is most likely the reason the death rate from car accidents involving teenagers is so high. Especially when it comes to drugs, teenagers rarely consider the repercussions of their actions. There was a lot of speculation in the media and on the Internet about whether drugs or alcohol were in Mike’s system on the day he died. The autopsy and the toxicology report both showed that no illegal drugs were in his system. My son kept his promise to stay clean and sober, but he was suffering a personal Gethsemane that week about whatever simple drug was slipped to him the night he picked those kids up. I believe they had no idea what it would do to him physically, something he
would never overcome. Depression kills the human spirit, and when it controls the mind, it can kill the body.

The harshest form of reality for a mother may be to see the corpse of her child. In my faith, I believe that the spirit continues on, even after we leave our earthly bodies. But to look at the face of my sweet son and have to accept that I would never see it on this earth again—I didn’t know if I could stand it. Steve said a prayer for me in the car before we entered the building and then held my arm as the mortuary assistant led us to the room that held my sweet baby’s body. Steve was concerned that this would be a horrible shock in my state of emotions, but God’s grace prevailed over all worries and I felt a sense of peace and calm. I rested on my deep faith that day, just as I saw in my dream on the night Mike died that he was safe in the care of my mother’s arms and those who have always loved him. After all, he had been born on her birthday. I couldn’t imagine anybody more perfect to greet him than her.

As I looked at his face, I thought about being in this same room at the mortuary with my mother’s body in 2004. A few days after my mother passed away, my daughters, a few close girlfriends, and I met at the mortuary to dress her body for the viewing before her memorial service. I applied my mother’s makeup, and my dear friend and longtime hairdresser styled her hair just the way she loved it. I remember looking at my mom’s face—which no longer showed the struggle or pain of her final six months on this earth. Her hands—which had held and nurtured so many children, sewn hundreds of shirts, dresses, and quilts, baked bread, prepared meals, carried suitcases,
planted the garden, tended the sick, kept the budget books, written hundreds of personal letters and newsletters to our fans and thousands of pages of journals and recipes—were finally still, no longer busy with the work of this life. Her feet, which had danced to big band music with my father, walked the floor all night long as she soothed ailing babies and grandbabies, traveled the world with her performing family, stood up to wrongdoing, and walked in faith—those feet, which had been so swollen in her last weeks of life, had now returned to normal size. Her body had softened, no longer having to work around or through the aches and pains of aging bones, tired muscles, and a heart weakened by many strokes.

Right after she had passed away, I was standing at the foot of her bed, watching as the nurse removed my mother’s feeding tube and IVs from her body. I had the distinct feeling that my mother was watching it happen as well, but not in a sad or regretful way. She was there in gratitude, thanking her body for supporting her and carrying her through seventy-nine years of life. It gave me a profound appreciation for the gift of our bodies.

Dressing my son for the viewing before his memorial service contained none of the grace-filled feeling I had had with my mother, even though his face did appear peaceful and free of emotional pain. I had an abiding feeling that Mike wanted me to know that he was sorry for putting me through this and also that he was at peace and feeling joy where he was. That did give me some comfort. But even though I clung to my faith that my son was fine and in Heavenly Father’s care, my daughters and I
still had to cope with the sight of his beautiful, healthy, young body which had been discarded in one moment of temporary insanity or irreversible impulse.

I only write these words hoping that they will be read by any person considering suicide as a way to spare your family more grief or because of a false perception that everyone would be better off without you. There is
nothing
better about life without you. There is no problem that isn’t fixable, except for one: if you make a choice to kill yourself. There isn’t a more hurtful way to leave your family behind. The physical ramifications to the body of any type of suicide are almost unbearably difficult for your family to see, especially your mother.

To look at the damage to my baby’s body, and to know that there was absolutely nothing that I could do to make it better or different, was the worst kind of torture. Viewing Michael’s bruised and broken body flooded me with memories that only another parent would understand. This was the baby boy I had held in my arms for hours, in awe of the miracle of being blessed with another son. He had been instantly imprinted on my heart and in my soul as my son forever. I had memorized the scent of his feathery hair and could have found him, blindfolded, in a room with hundreds of other babies. I knew the curve of his chin and the shell-like structure of his tiny ears. I adored the way his head tilted to one side when he was listening, the pomegranate red flush of his cheeks when he had been playing hard. I knew how his eyebrows gleamed in the sun when wet from the pool, the shape of his toes, and each place on his back that held a freckle or birthmark. I could predict the
way his blue eyes would change in color depending on the shirt he was wearing. Protecting him and my other children from illness and accidents was one of my main concerns as a mother. Until the day he left home, I would go in his room to check on him when he was sleeping, pulling the quilt up over his curled-up body, just as I’ve always done for each of my kids. Every time I did, I would smile about his baby blanket, which he still had in a dresser drawer, and the way all my kids have kept theirs even into adulthood. Now, as I looked down at my son, the wave of grief pulled me under again, knowing that I would tuck his blanket over him for the last time in his coffin. It was going to be so hard to leave his side, yet I knew he was, in spirit, no longer there. No longer in pain, no longer depressed, no longer in conflict about the things that kept him unhappy. For that, I was grateful and I knew somehow God’s grace would mend my shattered heart.