I lost my nephew, Gunner, on November 3rd. While I can say his death was completely unexpected and shocking, I don’t believe anyone could ever truly be prepared for this kind of pain. Nothing readies you for the moment your world suddenly stops.
I’ve wanted to write something for a long time—to explain what happened and to help people understand. I feel it’s important to tell Gunner’s story for three reasons. First, Gunner was an incredible young man who deserved the full life he will never get the chance to live, and I owe it to him to make sure his story is told. Second, I want to clear up misconceptions and share the facts. And third, Gunner’s story could very well save another child’s life. Please, share his story.
On Friday night, Gunner went out with friends. They later returned to my brother’s house, where they stayed up late eating pizza and playing video games—just like so many 19-year-old boys do. At some point during the night, Gunner and a friend each took a pill stamped as Percocet, a very popular and easily accessible painkiller.
Gunner had no history of drug use. He was never a “problem child.” He was a star athlete, a loving son and brother, and deeply loved throughout his community.
We don’t know why he made the decision to take a pill that night. The only thing we can assume is curiosity—the desire to know what a “high” feels like. But that is only an assumption. His friend took a pill as well.
Both boys died, we believe, almost immediately. They went to sleep and never woke up. That is the only small comfort in this story—that they didn’t suffer or feel pain, though even calling that a positive feels wrong.
The next morning, my sister-in-law—Gunner’s mother—found both boys. She and my nieces tried desperately to resuscitate them, but it was already too late. They had been gone for hours. There was nothing they, or the paramedics, could do.
The pills Gunner and his friend took were at least laced with fentanyl. We are still awaiting final reports, but there is a strong chance the pills contained more than 50% fentanyl—enough poison to kill ten adult men. According to the detective handling Gunner’s case, just two grains of table-salt-sized fentanyl can kill any adult.
Think about that.
Gunner never had a chance.
I’m sharing his story because Gunner had his whole life ahead of him. He had dreams and goals. He wanted to be a dad. He planned to continue playing football and baseball in college. He wanted to hunt and fish with his grandpa. Gunner wasn’t finished living.
One bad decision. One minor, careless mistake.
That was all it took.
Gunner never had a chance.
It’s natural for teenagers and young adults to be curious and want to experiment. When we were growing up, experimenting might have meant cigarettes. Times have changed. Today, kids experiment with pills because they believe they’re safe. They’ve seen them in their parents’ medicine cabinets—leftover from a car accident or a back injury. They look harmless.
But these are not the pills from your parents’ medicine cabinet. They are often made in someone’s garage by someone trying to make a quick buck—at the expense of our children’s lives.
There can be no experimenting.
None.
This is truly a matter of life or death.
You can’t see fentanyl. You can’t smell fentanyl.
Tell your kids Gunner’s story. Show them his picture. I can’t begin to describe the pain my brother, sister-in-law, and Gunner’s sisters are living with—a pain that will never end, a hole that will never be filled, a life that can never be brought back.
A beautiful life.
Gone forever.
Update: One Year Later
Dear Gunner,
Today marks one year since I received the call.
One year since I saw the most heartbreaking, devastating, I wish I didn’t have to tell you this look on Uncle Larry’s face.
One year since everything still felt normal.
So much has happened in the last year, yet at times it feels like time has stood still. Life has continued, but you weren’t there.
Rylee graduated high school and went off to college—and you weren’t there.
Kallie graduated middle school and started high school, walking the same halls where you still hold records in baseball and football. She walked them as your little sister—and you weren’t there.
Papa and Grammy talk about you as if you’re still here because they can’t bear to say your name in the past tense—even though you aren’t here.
As for me, sometimes I cry for no reason while driving down the road because I’m suddenly reminded that you’re gone. Your cousins think that’s normal now—because you aren’t here.
There are things you should know.
Your parents are surviving. They ache for your presence every day, and some days the pain feels unbearable, but they are holding on. They are surrounded by people who love them, and we will continue to take care of them. Don’t worry about that.
You should also know that your story was shared more than a million times across the world. People from over ten countries reached out to send their condolences.
Moms, dads, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins shared their own stories and thanked me for sharing yours.
It feels strange to be thanked for telling the most painful story of my life. It still doesn’t make sense. And yet, countless people mourned you—people who never even met you.
You should know that I’m going to eat pie this Thanksgiving, even though you know I’ve never liked pie. But I’ll eat it.
You should know that every time I hear Cole Swindell’s “You Should Be Here,” I sob. No matter where I am or who I’m with, I can’t turn it off.
You should know that I wish you were my cornhole partner this Thanksgiving so we could dominate—again.
You should know that I’m trying to stop saying “I’ll do that next time,” because you taught me there might not be a next time.
You should know that I would do almost anything to bring you back.
For one more hug.
For one more smile.
For one more “Hey Aunt Brandi.”
But most of all, for your mom and dad.
They are broken in ways that can’t be repaired, but you need to know they aren’t angry with you. They forgive you. They are grateful for every moment they had with you. You need to know that.
Not a day goes by without laughter, growth, faith, and love in this family that misses you beyond words.
Some days are harder than others, but we know we will see you again someday. That, we know.
I love and miss you more than you could ever understand, Gunner Dean.
Forever,
Aunt Brandi
