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Watch Lose Tyler on SI TV. Our latest documentary recounts the search for answers from the Hilinski family in the aftermath of the tragedy.
Cards and collages line the entrance to the Hilinski family's home in Irvine, California. My deepest condolences and promises of prayers. There is a rowing of the University of Minnesota football team, a note from the Seahawks general manager and 20,000 bracelets packed in boxes, each bearing a red number 3 and two words: Hilinski & # 39; s Hope.
The messages arrive daily, reminding the family of their new dichotomy. Now, there is before January 16 and after, life with Tyler and without him. That's the difference between the photo of the Hilinskis and the envelope that they can not open.
The framed picture is inflated and rests on the floor of the entrance, against the wall. That's what Kym Hilinski, the matriarch of the family, watches when she wakes up at 2 am, thinking of things she's never imagined, I hate my life. Her second son, Tyler, never seemed happier than on this picture. It was taken on September 9, 2017, four months before Kym carries his ashes through airport security and covers the drums in the music room with bouquets of faded flowers. Tyler is centered in the frame, dressed in his number 3 crimson jersey from Washington State, surrounded by fans who reach out to touch him. It's his Sweet T, his Big Ty, his Superman. Even though he is the substitute quarterback, Cougars fans carry him as a deity from the field after throwing 240 yards and three touchdowns into a Boise State conquest in triple overtime, the best match of his life.
Kym, as usual, covered his eyes with his hands at Martin Stadium that day. Tyler's older brother, a medical student named Kelly, was halfway to his shift at a hospital in Ogden, Utah, stealing glances at his computer portable between two calls to the emergency. His father, Mark, and his younger brother, Ryan, were at home in Irvine, causing such a ruckus that the neighbors would stop to see them. Finally, Kym found Tyler in the field just after the picture was taken. He put his arm around her. "Is this happening?" Asked he.
The picture showed Tyler as they knew him, before entering an apartment in an apartment in Pullman, Washington, and committing suicide. Before the family needed answers and resolved to find out why. Now, the image comforts and haunts the Hilinski, reminding them of better times, together, as the closest to very united football families. But that also makes them wonder. Tyler's happiness was it a mirage?
In the adjacent living room, the photo is surrounded by satchels filled with research on depression, suicide, and traumatic brain injury, as well as a Mayo Clinic letter that contains a potential clue: the autopsy of the brain from Tyler. The three letters that have complicated everything.
In the placemat closest to the picture, where during his last visit to the house, Tyler could have had his breakfast, there is a priority mail envelope sealed with tape. This is the coroner of Whitman County. About 10 feet separate the image and the envelope, and yet the gap between what they represent – Tyler's seemingly happy life and his inexplicable death – is vast. Bridging the gap between these two realities is the most obvious way to closing the Hilinski. What they learn could lessen their pain and ease their confusion, push them forward, in the defense of mental health, where they can give a deeper and lasting meaning to Tyler's life. The Hilinski have been informed that the contents of the envelope are graphic and that they want to know, even if they to have to find out, they could not open it. Not yet.
In the afternoon, before committing suicide, Tyler Hilinski learned to use a firearm. His roommates say that they had never seen him hold a water pistol, and yet he enjoyed a sunny winter afternoon at Pullman to shoot pigeons from his home. 39, clay with several teammates. They taught him how to hold, aim and shoot, and then spent the last 15 minutes of their session training him, encouraging him. He did not hit a single target.
Tyler spent the night playing Fortnite with his teammates and brothers, signing a six-hour session, only after winning. When he got up early the next morning, he sent a group text to his wide receivers recalling a training session scheduled for 3 pm. At 10:25, he stole his ex-girlfriend and sweetheart high school, Sophie Engle, I'm sorry for everything. He also told his older brother that he wanted to play Fortnite later. When Kelly called later that morning, Tyler said that he was in class.
"I love you," Kelly told him.
"I like you too," he says.
Tyler moved into a new apartment and dropped one of his new roommates, defensive lineman Nick Begg, in class around 11 am. It was the last time anyone saw him or heard about him. When he did not show up at an afternoon workout, it was not just unusual – it was Tyler Hilinski, the most reliable player of the day. coach Mike Leach – but also alarming. Enough for Antonio Huffman, the assistant sports director for football operations, to send Begg and roommate Peyton Pelluer to pick him up. After they failed to find Tyler at the apartment or at his girlfriend's house and they were unable to locate his car, Huffman called local hospitals and police departments , and urged officers to release a PDB.
Huffman telephoned Tyler's parents. Kelly texted Tyler, suggesting he leave and drive the nine hours of Ogden. "I thought, maybe, being there, I could shake it," Kelly said. "I could look him in the eyes and leave, What is going on? "
Begg could feel the panic in Kelly's voice, getting up with each call, crying when Kelly noticed that Tyler had stopped sharing his slot on his mobile phone. The players redoubled the old Tyler digs, the Aspen Village apartment complex, where they found his car hidden in the back lot and saw his passport torn and left in the vehicle. When the manager refused, Begg and Pelluer walked through the grass overrun by building D and kicked in the green door of apartment 201. They checked the salon, then the room farthest from the balcony, then the one adjacent to it. And once inside, Pelluer, looking into the open cupboard, saw Tyler, with the AR-15 next to him, a bullet hole in his left eye.
Huffman arrived right after the police, who looked at him and shook his head. We just said, "I'm sorry." Huffman telephoned Kym, who threw away his cell and called him a liar before suffering a panic attack. She spent part of the night at the hospital, wondering what Mark was asking her after begging for her eldest son to be wrong and after the organ donation organization was called for her husband. Inform about Tyler's right cornea. Why did not they see it coming? Why?
From that night and over the next few weeks and months, Mark and Kym would relive countless moments of their lives – from the moment they fell in love, got married shortly afterwards. university and had three boys attracted by the same sport. Same position. Tyler was born after Kym's water broke in Nordstrom and she rushed to go to the hospital, gripping her husband's hand so hard that her knuckles were white . "I did not let the nurses take [Tyler]", Said Kym." He slept on me. "
The Hilinskis were not a football family at the time. Mark, who later founded a software company, played quarterback and the defensive end at Damien High in La Verne, Ca., and took root for the Steelers; Kym, a lawyer, was a cheerleader but ambivalent about the game. The Hilinski wanted to expose the boys to everything, so they skateboarded, took guitar lessons, played tennis, basketball and baseball.
Tyler was the easiest of the three. He never cried, never waved. He loved action movies and video games and singing in the car at full volume. They found him crazy, and when he laughed, his nose crumpled, reminding Mark, 52, of a young Jon Gruden.
The Hilinski brothers looked at each other, even though Tyler was the least confrontational. In fourth grade, he tried to ignore a classmate who teased him for weeks while eating his peanut butter sandwich and jam on Hawaiian bread. Eventually, Ryan, then a kindergartner, hit the bully in the face. Kym rumbled Ryan, told him never to hit anyone, but she later told Kelly that she was proud of her youngest, reminding her to "put her brothers and family before everyone else".
Tyler idolized Kelly, following him everywhere, especially in football. Mark and Kym had never planned to raise three university quarterbacks, but all their boys were growing up and possessed straight arms capable of whistling spirals. The quarterbacks have become. While Kelly and Tyler were on the same team, Tyler was sometimes lined up at the receiver, and in the youth leagues he was playing linebacker, earning the nickname Mini Urlacher for his offensive tackles.
John Cordes / Icon Sportswire via Getty Images
As Mark and Kym looked back, they grinned at every move that Tyler received and endured. Kym, 53, was still worried about his football-obsessed sons. She preferred to watch them in seven-by-seven camps, where defenders can not touch quarters. "I usually cover my eyes," she says. "I am so nervous that a great linebacker will come to camp my son.If I could bubble wrap, I would do it."
She also knew that her boys loved football more than they liked except for each other, so she led them reluctantly to practice and bring snacks to their teammates. Prior to Tyler's junior season, he was transferred to Upland High and won the starting position. He played as a skinny Brett Favre, scrambling, improvising, throwing no-no-no-no-YES! landings on his back foot or on his body. Tyler coach, Tim Salter, nicknamed him Superman, partly to remind the quarterback that he did not need to be heroic at every game. "But I make"Said Tyler.
In Upland, Tyler met Sophie Engle, and they have been out for most of the next three years. They spent most weekends on the Hilinskis couch, playing with his yellow lab, Navy Blue, watching movies, ordering zucchini fries, and competing in burbot competitions. All those memories squared with the members of his family that Tyler knew; Returning to the first 18 of his 21 years, they found no clues.
A story of years ago that Engle shared with the Hilinskis recently made more sense after his death. She once said that she had talked to Tyler about a friend who had committed suicide, detailing the unbearable pain felt by those whom the friend had left behind. "You never know what someone crosses," said Tyler. "It's so sad."
During those weeks and months, while he was reviewing the events of Tyler's life, Mark remembered being realistic. "I'm not trying to canonize the kid," he says. "I do not try to make him better than him." Passing from Tyler High School to his college life, he saw what appeared to be the typical problems of the beginning of the school year. adulthood and wondered if they meant anything more. If he was scrutinizing hard enough, there were signs. But where? Which ones were real?
Tyler chose WSU from the other four schools that offered him a scholarship, graduated early and arrived on campus for the spring semester 2015. That first week he called home to say he was sad, as his He wanted to cry. "You're homesick, darling," his mother told him.
But this fight was hardly alarming. Kym went skydiving with Tyler this Mother's Day, starting an annual tradition. He redshirted the following fall and supported Luke Falk in 2016. He loved Leach and hung the Quarterback Commandments of the coach …3. Fat QB can not avoid the race; 11. Do not be a celebrity QB– On the fridge of the kitchen. Apart from what Tyler considered a possible concussion suffered in his first training season, nothing at that moment seemed to go bad. He called home at night to analyze specific practice games with his father. They talked about the problems of his teammates with girlfriends, injuries or position coaches. Tyler did not complain. He was driving a teammate to counseling sessions, letting others borrow clothes or money, and yet no one could remember a time when Tyler had asked them to return the favor.
"The reality is that we missed it and we dropped it."
Leach says Hilinski has almost taken Falk's starting job before the 2017 season. Tyler's old friend, defenseman Kirkland Parker, says he's expecting Tyler to play in points this year that, from the beginning and "there was no doubt in my mind that he was going to do the NFL". was able to. When Mark is watching this game now, he sees something that he did not see at the time. "When he would applaud for the ball," Mark said, his voice was shaking, "he was not worried about anything."
Last October, Tyler released Falk at the end of the second quarter of Arizona, down 20-7. In just over half, he completed 45 passes for 509 yards and scored four touchdowns. He also launched four interceptions and the state of Washington lost. Feeling a little distressed in his younger brother – who also said he had supported a blow that had "shaken" him – Kelly sent the rest of the family text messages saying that Tyler was struggling to put the defeat behind him. Kelly even drove to the Cougars game in Utah on November 11 and consoled his brother on the balcony in front of Tyler's hotel room the day before, reminding him that he could not win every single time in triplicate OT. Why not?Superman answered. "He had the impression of letting everyone down," Kelly says.
Chris Williams / Icon Sportswire via Getty Images
His family noticed other seemingly minor changes at Tyler after the loss of Arizona. He was not as text-sensitive and called the rest of the season, especially in the run up to the Holiday Bowl, where he began a defeat in the state of Michigan. At one point, Mark asked Kym if she thought something was wrong with Tyler, and they determined that he was just busy with classes and football and student life. It was the most difficult conversation, looking back. At a minimum, they had known Something. "The reality is that we missed it and we dropped it," his father says.
The last time his family saw Tyler, during a trip to Mexico in early January, Kelly said "that he was the happiest I saw him". But when Tyler returned to school, his lack of responsiveness resumed. Kym sent a message asking "Did you lose your phone" with a crying emoji. He replied not to worry. But after several more messages went unanswered, she texted, "Something is wrong Ty?"
Kym sent another message in the afternoon of January 16th: Tyler please call me. That night, she discovered that he was dead. She turned at every moment, wishing to intervene harder, tormenting herself on missed clues. When she now looks at their pictures of Mexico, she sees a bewitching sadness in Tyler's eyes. Was it real? Or imagined?
The day after Tyler's death, the family flew to Pullman. On the flight, Kym silently wished the plane to crash and that she would be the only one injured. Instead, on landing, she prepared for meetings with medical examiners and detectives, learning that Tyler had left behind a note. Perhaps, Hilinski thought, he had explained his decision, told them not to worry, had absolved them of their guilt. Then they read the short message he had written and it only made them feel worse. This note – the Hilinski do not want to reveal the content publicly – offered no explanation, no I like you, not goodbye.
They learned that the school had quickly mobilized all available resources, sending advisers to the team within 40 minutes of Tyler's discovery. Mark asked to go to the Cougars with Kym, and when they gathered in the weight room, he looked at the young faces stained with tears. As the players hugged and told Tyler their favorite stories, it became even clearer: his teammates had no answer either.
During the time of the Hilinski in Pullman, they were able to glean details that only added to their anguish. How Tyler had searched with his teammates for the rifle that he had already stolen. How did the police find a bullet hole in the door of his car and another in the room where he shot himself, assuming that he had accidentally missed the two times? armed. But why did not anyone hear the shots?
Geoff Crimmins / Daily News from Moscow-Pullman via AP
They cleaned her locker, hoping to find Tyler's phone. They never did it and it tormented them, the care he took to dispose of the only thing that could give them answers. They visited the funeral home, asking a priest to pray on Tyler's body, while Kym touched her hand and kissed her one last time. They decided to send his brain to the Mayo Clinic for examination. It was packed in the ice and sent by mail.
Eventually, they began to wonder if what they were looking for desperately counted – the more they learned, the less they felt they understood. They attended the vigil for Tyler, together, at the cougar statue outside the stadium. Thousands gathered. Kym was wearing his son's mailman's jacket. The group played. She read each note. Touched each flower. Then she went back and saw her teammates, standing right there, everyone in the crowd raising three fingers.
Kym sent an SMS to Kelly, redefining their mission, giving them a new type of Why.
"Hilinski's hope," she wrote.
"What is it?" He replied.
"Our why," she tapped back.
"Our why for what?"
"Our why to get out of bed every morning."
Knowing that she would receive no answer, Kym sent messages to Tyler in the weeks that followed.
January 22nd: Hi Ty. I miss you so much. I like you.
January 24th: Hi Ty. I wish you would not leave me. I miss you so much.
January 27 (date of his memorial service): Today is going to be tough Ty. I am so sad and I miss you. I love Ty.
8 March: Ty. I am crazy today. Sad too. But so crazy. You did not have to go there. We would have understood that. I do not like t.
The family has moved forward by creating the Hilinski's Hope Foundation, a nonprofit organization designed to educate and educate students about mental health, making bracelets, coffee mugs, bottles of life. water and identity plates. suicide prevention line.
Then, the test results came back. First, the Whitman County Medical Examiner phoned to say that Tyler's toxicology report showed no trace of drugs or alcohol. ("It made things worse," says Mark.) The Mayo Clinic results came next. Kym read the sentence: "After examining the tissue, we can confirm that he had the pathology of Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy (CTE)" – and began to reconsider all his research. The diagnosis was at stage 1, the lowest level. But even so, Tyler was 21 when he died, he had not played much at the university and for most of his life he held the most protected positions. If he had CTE, anyone could do it. She read that depression was a symptom of step 1 and a doctor told her that Tyler 's brain resembled that of an elderly and much older man.
She did not want to blame football – to be clear: she does it do not blame football – yet the diagnosis has also given his family its clearest and, in some ways, the only known factor in his death. "It helped us know," said Kelly, "that a) there was something wrong and b) that he was suffering and we could not understand him. That was, O.K., we have a legitimate reason. That's enough of that. "
"I'm just not giving a f — I'm crazy .. I love this sport.That's not what hurt him.I will do everything that Tyler wanted to do with football. "
Even then, Mark and Kym's guilt remained strong, perhaps even stronger. Tyler had played linebacker before high school, had played quarterback with abandon, had perhaps suffered from this concussion as a freshman and told Kelly that the blow he had suffered against Arizona had "shaken" it. understand. Being able to label what has happened has not changed what happened. This did not change the fact that their son loved football. And that did not change the way the sport that he adored could have contributed to his death. And, above all As a result, their youngest son, Ryan, was about to accept a scholarship to play FBS from 2019. If his life imitated the same Tyler genes, the same sport, the same position, would suffer. he the same fate? Mark and Kym would they stop? Could they?
Ryan's parents decided to inform his decision, rather than doing it for him. When he was 10, Kym said, "He would not play football because it's too scary for me." But Ryan is almost 18 years old. Her parents and her future doctor have all read research articles on traumatic brain injury. between CTE and mental illness; They called in experts, asked questions and presented their findings to Ryan. Mark told Ryan that he could stop football that day, that they would find something else. Or it could continue and they would never stop looking for the latest technology in headphones, the most protective equipment, the best recovery techniques. They would make an inherently dangerous game as safe as possible. "I'm not just giving a f —," Ryan told them. "I'm crazy … I love this sport.This is not what hurt him.
"I'm going to do everything Tyler wanted to do with football, I'm going to do that for Tyler, to honor him."
Ryan had found the way he would remember Tyler. They all did it, finally. Kelly had wanted to specialize in cardiovascular medicine, but changed her career path in neurosurgery and decided in part to study CTE. Mark continued to work in the software company, but discovered more solace in the impact of Hilinski's Hope. The family formed a board of directors, began researching best practices and spoke to experts about the most effective ways to use donations. Kym continued the tradition of skydiving, renaming him Ty-diving, and made a trip with Kelly honoring Tyler's memory and thanking the companies that donated to the foundation.
Even though Ryan knew that he wanted to keep playing football, he harbored concerns. He has chosen South Carolina, where he will be number 3 and will study the psychology of sport. He did all this for Tyler, and yet, deep down, "it made me a little scared," he says, refusing to repress his deepest fears as his brother had done. "It made me go back and think, O.K., if I got hit twice again? Will I [go through] What was Tyler going through?
Kelly says scared It's not exactly the right word to describe the relationship of the family to football now. Kelly sees sport as a welcome distraction from Tyler's death. He says that when he has kids – if he has a son, he will name him Tyler – he will let them play football without hesitation. He wants the boy to learn the best lessons in the shoulder pads, to find the pain and overcome it. But it is not so simple, not for any of them. "I'm worried," admits Kelly. "I'm worried that Ryan may be facing the same signs and symptoms as Tyler and he will not be the same person he was."
The Hilinskis finally made the only choices they thought they had. Once they found a goal, they stopped their search for answers and bottled their discomfort. They wanted to believe that football would help Ryan more than it hurt him. To think otherwise would be too damning.
In therapy, the Hilinskis continued to redefine the mission of their new life, moving away from the Why as much as possible and towards the suggestion of their therapist: How. This new framework has helped them to move forward. How could they prevent another suicide? How could they build a model of mental health awareness in college sports? How could they break the stigma so that football players like Ryan can express their darkest thoughts without fear of appearing weak?
The work they are now feeling destined to crystallize as the winter has turned to spring. They always came back to the statistics that alarmed them the most, namely, for men aged 15 to 34, suicide was the second leading cause of death. They have received thousands of letters and social media messages from around the world. One of Tyler's former teammates reached out to Kelly, saying that he had felt obliged, one night, to find his troubled younger brother and tell him that he loved him and gave him a Hilinski Bracelet & # 39; s Hope. The next morning, this brother told Tyler's teammate that he had planned to commit suicide the night before. It helped, a little, to know that they were not alone, namely that Tyler was not the only one to suffer. Nothing that they had learned would bring Tyler back, but the fact that he helped save a life – that it would help save lives– brought comfort to the Hilinski.
The stigmata, they decided, had to change first. The family teamed up with retired quarterback Drew Bledsoe, whose son John played with Tyler in Pullman. "As men, we have to learn to talk about how we feel …" Bledsoe wrote in an Instagram post. "Getting help when we need it is NOT a sign of weakness. Trust your friends and ask for help is the ultimate sign of FORCE !! "
The mentalities needed to change. What they knew. Athletes looking for tutors when they are struggling in class or finding doctors to repair torn ligaments must also use the resources available to help their mental health. First, they had to know that mental health resources existed. Washington State had advisers and doctors that Tyler could have seen. But they also needed more resources, more counselors, more programs, more of everything.
Tyler n'a jamais demandé d'aide. Ils le savaient aussi. Il a pris la même charge que ses coéquipiers: cours, devoirs et copines et combats de position – et il n'a jamais dit à sa famille ou à ses entraîneurs ce qu'il avait dit à deux personnes: qu'il avait des «pensées noires». Les membres de sa famille pensent qu'il ne voulait pas les accabler. "C'est amplifié dans le domaine sportif, cette résistance", dit Bledsoe. "Ils sont censés avoir 10 pieds de haut et être à l'épreuve des balles."
Ils sont censés être comme Superman. Les Hilinski veulent changer cela, et de plus en plus de gens veulent se joindre à leur cause. Les coéquipiers qui ont organisé un concert bénéfice pour leur fondation. Les étudiants qui ont démarré un fonds de sensibilisation à la santé mentale au WSU. Les gens qui veulent créer un centre de santé mentale mobile à Pullman, rendant les thérapeutes disponibles pour venir aux patients.
Mark croit que son fils aurait eu une meilleure chance si les stigmates étaient moins répandus et mieux compris. Il commencerait par interdire les armes à feu dans les logements parrainés par l'université, même s'il est légal de transporter certaines armes à feu avec des permis d'armes dissimulés dans l'État de Washington. "Vous devez comprendre la position dans laquelle je suis assis", dit-il. "Si ce n'est pas là, il doit attendre encore un jour, une semaine ou une heure, et bien sûr, il y a des ponts pour sauter et des voitures pour s'écraser si vous voulez vraiment faire quelque chose. Mais s'il n'a pas le pistolet, il y a certainement une chance de survivre. "
Il se rend compte comment cela peut sembler, la façon dont les amateurs d'armes réagiraient. "C'est là que la stigmatisation vient", dit Mark. "Parce que la prochaine réponse est, eh bien, il n'aurait pas dû le voler. C'est ce genre de pensée que nous devons changer. Nous devons aider les gens. Tyler avait besoin d'aide. Et je ne me absous de rien. Tu ne me feras jamais sentir moins coupable que moi.
De retour chez eux à Irvine, les Hilinskis revoient les vidéos du service commémoratif de Tyler. Ils essuient tous des larmes quand la séquence se termine. Ryan est rapide avec un sourire et de la réconfort. Il jette son bras autour de son père. "Cela signifie-t-il que nous devons jeter la vieille peau de porc autour?", Demande-t-il.
Son père hoche la tête, et la famille rassemble son équipement et se dirige vers l'extérieur, au soleil. Ils se promènent dans un parc voisin. Mark met des gants pour les laissez-passer Ryan zippe son chemin. Kym promène Bleu Marine à travers le champ, loin de la séance de lancer. C'est toujours le football, encore difficile à regarder. "Comment vais-je traverser l'année prochaine, puis quatre autres années et ne pas m'inquiéter à chaque fois que mon fils est touché ou abattu?", Dit-elle. "Ryan n'a pas besoin de me voir pleurer ou m'inquiéter ou être malade à mon estomac. Je dois donc faire ce que font la plupart des mamans et cacher ce que je ressens. "
Elle fait exactement cela pendant cet après-midi sans nuages alors que Ryan lance des spirales à son père. C'est un lancer parfait après l'autre. Mark a à peine bouger. "J'ai toujours compris," Ryan les mains mortes alors que Mark secoue la piqûre de ses mains.
La session se termine. Les Hilinski reviennent vers la maison, le ballon blotti sous le bras droit de Ryan. C'est comme un moment heureux, un retour à la normale, mais cela masque les sentiments les plus sombres qu'ils ont tous. Parfois, Kym se sent coupable juste pour avoir souri, ou comme une fraude pour avoir envoyé des notes de remerciement à tous les sympathisants, se demandant juste ce qu'elle devrait en être reconnaissante. Juste en passant devant des casiers de football, en particulier ceux avec le numéro 3 au-dessus d'eux, réduit Mark aux larmes. Kelly, qui avait l'intention de vivre avec Tyler à la fin de ses études, doit penser à qui il va loger maintenant. Ryan se demande qui il appellera quand il aura besoin de conseils.
L'avenir demeure aussi incertain que ce qu'il a ressenti en janvier, mais les Hilinski savent qu'ils doivent faire plus, mieux faire, en soutenant le but et la signification de la mort de Tyler en lui tenant la vie et en lui disant que c'est important. Alors ils se dirigent vers leur salon, passant leur photo préférée dans l'entrée, ignorant l'enveloppe qu'ils refusent d'ouvrir sur la table de la cuisine. Ils peuvent ne jamais l'ouvrir, dit Kym. Ou ils le feront, dit Mark, et ensuite ils le liront une fois et le brûleront.
Les quatre derniers mois leur ont montré que ce qui est dans le rapport n'a pas d'importance. Cela n'a jamais été le cas. Il n'y a pas de raison simple, pas évident PourquoiRien qui puisse donner aux Hilinski ce qu'ils veulent, une seconde chance pour aider Tyler. Au lieu de cela, Ryan passe de nouveau un bras autour de l'épaule de son père et Mark enveloppe Ryan, le serre fermement et lui murmure à l'oreille: «Je suis désolé.» C'est un autre pas vers un avenir incertain et, pour l'instant, ça prend, ça va devoir faire.
Si vous ou une personne que vous connaissez êtes aux prises avec des idées suicidaires, communiquez avec la Ligne nationale de prévention du suicide au 1-800-273-TALK (8255).
Watch Perdre Tyler sur SI TV. Notre dernier documentaire relate la recherche de réponses de la famille Hilinski au lendemain de la tragédie. The
Reportage spécial par Mary Agnant et Alex Agnant.
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