His 5-year-old daughter asked her mom, “Today is daddy’s birthday. Can we have a picnic at his grave?”

Bryan was 49 years old. He could really do anything. He could do renovations, carpentry, electrical work, play music, be a father and a husband, a son, an uncle, a brother, and a brother-in-law. He had an incredible sense of humor, was down-to-earth, and a big teddy bear to his children. No one had more talents than Bryan.

He carved his own path out of his parents’ house, where he grew up with a deep appreciation for that old-time religion.

As a youngster, he wasn’t allowed to go to the movies; they were considered the devil’s work. Church was every Wednesday, Saturday, and Sunday. Any day not spent in church was seen as a passage to hell. As he grew older, wine and smoking were also prohibited.

Even as he left his parents’ house, he still felt the sting of the devil’s influence.

Throughout his life’s journey, he ended up with three different wives and two children. He rarely visited his parents; it was too much of a reminder of his sinful ways.

During the day, he renovated houses and worked as a certified electrician. At night, he played the drums for a band, crisscrossing the country playing blues, country, and rock ‘n roll. He was high on life, but also on cocaine, heroin, benzos, and amphetamines. The music, the women, the alcohol, and the needle—it was all he wanted. He needed more, and he couldn’t stop.

Bryan eventually realized he was destroying his life and his family—his wife and children. He was determined to stop. Cold turkey. Withdrawal. Shakes and tremors. He joined a support group for people struggling with drug and narcotics addiction. God became his superpower, and he took it one day at a time. Slowly, he rebuilt a house into a recording studio, striving for perfection.

He quit drinking, stopped using drugs, and disbanded his rock ‘n roll group. He was committed to rebuilding his life, for real this time.

He tested positive for Hepatitis, a result of his past with dirty needles. Severe abdominal pain followed. His doctor prescribed pain medication—narcotics.

Bryan had just received his 5-year sobriety chip. But the pain didn’t go away. He kept refilling his pain medication prescriptions, like Oxys, over and over again. He found himself trapped in the vicious cycle of dependency once more.

Feeling desperate and unable to continue, he talked to his wife, telling her he was considering suicide. He also consulted his preacher, asking if he would go to heaven if he committed suicide. Both his wife and the preacher responded: “Don’t be selfish.”

However, no one else knew. No one reached out. There was no lifeline, no life preserver.

His wife walked to his recording studio to bring him lunch. The outside door was locked, with a sign indicating entry was only allowed for medics, police, or the fire department. Diane called 911 in panic, screaming, and hyperventilating. Something was wrong. They needed to hurry.

Bryan kicked the stool after he put the noose around his neck. He hung there for some time. His lips turned blue, his tongue swollen and thick. Lifeless.

Anger, sadness, disbelief—another beautiful life was snuffed out in its prime.

At his funeral, his brother Sean played the guitar, singing, “The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind, the answer is blowing in the wind.”

Debbie Moore-Black is a nurse who blogs at Do Not Resuscitate.