Michael didn’t write “Man in the Mirror”—Siedah Garrett and Glen Ballard did—but he relates to the lyrics as though they sprang from his very soul. He sees himself walking out into the cold, turning up his collar as the freezing wind reveals the reality of starving children and homeless people the world over. He knows that he has been, as the song says, the victim of a selfish love. He knows that he has been obsessively self-absorbed. And he knows that this isn’t who he wants to be. He wants to be released from the prison of his own ego. He wants to devote himself to helping others—the scarred widow; the brokenhearted, defeated by washed-out dreams. His dream is to transcend himself and his endless concerns—Will my show be the greatest? Will my music set new sales records? Will my iconography be cleansed of all blemishes?—and concentrate on the issues that matter: the welfare of others, the welfare of the planet.
Over the decades, Michael has looked at the man in the mirror and not liked what he has seen. For a thousand different reasons, his appearance has been unacceptable, even repulsive, to his own eyes. He has used his vast resources to change that appearance, but in doing so, he has been caught up in a hopeless dilemma. The changes have not brought him happiness. The changes have not calmed his restless soul. The perfection he has sought in himself—in both his physical body and the body of his artistic work—is an illusion. The real change, he finally understands, will happen when he moves beyond himself. On the deepest level, that’s what it means to ask himself—to demand of himself—that he change his ways. The metaphor of the mirror couldn’t be any clearer. Michael remembers the myth of Narcissus, who was fixated by the beauty of his own image in a pool of water. Because he didn’t understand the phenomenon of a mirrorlike reflection, his self-fixation caused him to drown.
The man in the mirror does not want to drown in self-obsession. The man in the mirror does not want to die. He wants to live; he wants to raise his children to be strong and caring human beings. He wants to be a strong and caring human being. And he is. After a lifetime of battling an army of demons of every stripe, he is once again ready to declare victory. “Man in the Mirror,” the song that will conclude his London shows, will also open a new chapter in his life.
Optimism is a beautiful thing, Michael reflects after returning to the Carolwood estate. Optimism is rooted in hope, and hope is rooted in faith. Michael’s faith is strong. He has seen drive and desire return to his heart like long lost friends. He has felt the powerful camaraderie of his colleagues. He has learned that this project, so fraught with overwhelming problems, is suddenly not a problem at all. It’s in him to do this; it always has been. He finally envisions this long series of concerts with clarity.
The vision excites his mind, and his mind moves into overdrive. He goes over all the songs that he has rehearsed. He makes mental notes about how to refine a gesture here and a dance move there. He can’t stop reviewing and thinking and relishing the happiness coursing through his spirit.
All this means that he can’t sleep.
Because Murray wants to keep Michael on a non-propofol program, at 1:30 a.m. the doctor gives him ten milligrams of Valium.
But Michael’s overstimulated mind is stronger than the Valium, and at 2 a.m. he is still awake. Using an IV drip, Murray injects him with two milligrams of another drug often used for anxiety: Ativan.
The Ativan doesn’t work.
It’s 3 a.m. Michael’s excited optimism is turning into anxiety about his inability to sleep. If he’s to realize another great rehearsal tomorrow—and he’s determined to do just that—he can’t afford to be up all night.
Still unwilling to go to the propofol, Murray injects Michael with two milligrams of the benzodiazepine drug Versed, another heavy sedative.
Tossing and turning, Michael grows frantic. He wants sleep. He needs sleep. He cannot tolerate this state of insomnia when all the good feelings are turning bad. His mind is filling with fear. His mind is too active. His mind goes back to the words of Hamlet: “By a sleep to say we end / The heartache and the thousand natural shocks / That flesh is heir to: ’tis a consummation / Devoutly to be wished.” He wants to end the heartache of this free-floating anxiety; he wants to stop the thousand natural shocks; he wants the consummation brought by sweet unconsciousness. He thinks of the words of Henry IV, who cries, “O sleep, O gentle sleep, / Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, / That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down / And steep my senses in forgetfulness?” Michael wants to forget the agony of sleeplessness. He wants to be comforted by nature’s soft nurse. He wants to sleep.
Dark night turns light. At dawn Michael is wide-awake. At 5 a.m. Murray gives him two more milligrams of Ativan, but the Ativan has no effect. Michael wants the one substance he knows will work. He wants his milk.
But Murray, convinced that this strong combination of drugs will eventually prove effective, still refuses.
The clock keeps ticking.
Michael’s anxiety keeps building.
Now it is 6 a.m., the bright sunshine blocked by the curtains.
Now it is six thirty.
Michael is still awake. Michael is more miserable than ever.
Now it is seven thirty.
Murray reaches for the Versed and injects Michael with another two milligrams. This has to work.
Eight a.m. Nine a.m.
Michael still cannot sleep, cannot abide the anxiety.
Ten a.m.
Michael is frantic.
Ten forty a.m.
Michael has been up all night, all morning. Michael is insisting that Murray abandon his fruitless plan and give him what he needs. It is as though he is re-creating the drama in the song “Morphine”: “Today he wants it twice as bad… Yesterday you had his trust / Today he’s taking twice as much.”
Murray capitulates.
Using the IV drip, he pushes twenty-five milligrams of propofol into Michael’s veins.
At long last, the great artist finally goes under.
Little more than a half hour later, Murray is distracted. He makes three phone calls. The first is to his office in Las Vegas; it lasts thirty-one minutes. The second call, a short one, is to a patient. The third call is to a cocktail waitress in Houston. It is during the third call—shortly before noon—that the physician finally realizes that something is terribly wrong. Michael has stopped breathing. The doctor drops the receiver and runs to Michael’s side, where he frantically begins performing CPR.
It is too late. Michael has fallen into a full cardiac arrest.
At twenty-one minutes past noon, 911 is called.
At twenty-six minutes past noon, paramedics arrive.
At fifty-seven minutes past noon, paramedics pronounce Michael dead.
He is taken in an ambulance to the nearby UCLA Medical Center, where all further attempts to revive him prove futile.
Experts will later speculate that in a hospital setting—with a heart monitor, blood pressure monitor, and defibrillator, none of which were present at Carolwood—his life could have been saved.
The official time of death is given as 2:26 p.m.
It is a little after midnight in London when fans, counting down the days before Michael’s opening show at the O2, begin hearing reports. Texts and emails furiously fly over the city. Social media blows up. And everywhere the reaction is incredulity. It must be a hoax.
In Tokyo it is already Friday morning. Tens of millions of people awaken to the news. Searching for the truth, hoping against hope that it is merely a ruse, anxiety-ridden Michael fans crash website after website, typing in their queries and requests: “Is Michael dead?” “Tell me this is some sick joke.” “Affirm that Michael is alive.”
Johannesburg, Moscow, São Paulo, Bayreuth, Berlin, Lisbon, Istanbul. Continent by continent, country by country, city by city, village by village, the news sinks in. The tragic truth can no longer be denied.
On that same Thursday, the day of his death, I am traveling to where my journey—as well as Michael’s—began. I am in our home state of Indiana, where I’ve been invited to address a body of educators in Indianapolis. As I’m walking from the car to the auditorium, my cell phone goes ballistic with a series of messages, all saying the same thing: Michael Jackson is dead at fifty. I stagger to the podium. I have no choice but to tell the assemblage, “It pains me beyond measure to bring this news. But I can’t even think about beginning my lecture today without acknowledging the loss of our most beloved native son.” When I announce the death of Michael, there are gasps and cries. Grown men and women openly weep. I weep.
When the weeping is over, I have no choice but to deliver my talk. I manage to get through the ordeal, but I’m not all right. I’m not all there. I can’t stop thinking of Michael. And neither can the rest of the world.