Brandon’s Story     

Two years. Most people think it’s a long time. That I should be “over it” by now. To me it seems like the blink of an eye. Still fresh. Still raw. Every part of my being filled with the most excruciating, unimaginable pain. December 2, 2017 is etched into my being. Two years. No. This is not a long time. It’s a very, very short time. It all feels so present, like it all began to unfold only moments ago.

I thought I knew what the police officer in my living room was going to say. I held on to his soft, slow-spoken voice like a lifeline. But when the words left his mouth, the words I feared more than anything else in the world, they were so much worse than what I could ever have imagined. Brandon was beaten, strangled, then shot, and left to die in the freezing rain at the bottom of steps. The words “…and he did not survive” were like an atomic bomb going off within my being. By the time my body hit the floor all that I had been, my entire life, was vaporized and gone forever. The bullet that killed Brandon traveled into my living room and killed who I was too as the officer’s words entered my ears. I was instantly thrust into an unfamiliar world of medical examiners, evidence, and homicide detectives. Brandon had become “evidence” and a “body” I could no longer touch or hold or talk with. His living self was gone. Every cell and fiber of my being screamed “NO, NO, NO. Not my child. NO.” The world of homicide was totally unfamiliar to me and I didn’t have the slightest clue how to contend with that world. I lived alone and suddenly the world felt so much lonelier and colder. I wondered how I would ever get through this when my sister, who came from Oregon the next day, and family, who came a few weeks later for the funeral, went home.  

My cousin’s husband was murdered in Seattle but through that experience, she learned about homicide support services. As soon as she heard the news she called me from Juneau and told me she was going to find out about the services available in Alaska. She called Victim’s for Justice and spoke with Michelle and told her to expect a call from me. Then she called me and made me promise I would call Michelle. I reluctantly agreed. I was in over my head dealing with the autopsy, the medical examiner, funeral arrangements, detectives, and family, but I made the call. Suddenly, I had a lifeline. Instantly, I had someone to help me make sense of, and begin to understand, this unfamiliar world I had been forcibly thrust into. At first Michelle and I spent hours on the phone just talking about what I, my family, and our close friends were going through, but each call also gave me bits of information or additional resources. I wasn’t ready in those first months, but later I attended the VFJ monthly homicide support group meetings. When I moved to Sitka soon afterwards I was the first one to attend those meetings by phone from long distance. A few months ago I was the first one to attend the meeting using the new video equipment and was thrilled to see the faces for the first time of people I knew only by voice over the phone.

Two years later, and I know most likely for as long as I’m alive, VFJ remains my lifeline. They are the first place I turn to when I run into challenges speaking with the homicide detective or don’t know where to get funding so I can go to counseling (due to PTSD from all this I lost my job and currently can’t work) or am not sure what I should do now that Brandon’s case has gone “cold” and no arrests have been made. Through VFJ I’ve met other homicide survivors and attended events held during National Crime Victim’s Rights Week. Murder is such a different kind of death and knowing others who also are living with this has become very important to me. It can feel like such a lonely existence but VFJ has made it feel a little less lonely. VFJ is also the reason that Brandon’s name is inscribed in one of the granite posts in Hostetler Park in downtown Anchorage and why ribbons hang on the Victim’s Tree for him. I also know that if we’re fortunate enough to someday go to trial VFJ will be with me every step of the way.

I wish people who know me as a murder survivor could have known Brandon. He called me G-Mom because I was both grandmother and mother to him, a grandparent who raised a grandchild. He was so smart, funny, and compassionate with an intense curiosity about life. At age 2 years old after staring up at the sky for several weeks, he said, “Grandma, the moon is never out when the sun is out.” I replied, “you’re right, it’s not.” I was shocked and delighted at his two year old powers of observation. In grade school he gave his school lunches to homeless families and volunteered to serve meals to homeless children. Brandon loved the outdoors from the moment he was born and his pants and shoes were always torn and muddy from sliding down mountainsides, snowboading, longboarding, and daily hikes up Eagle River where we lived. After his 8th grade school trip to London he had the urge to travel and hoped to explore different places around the world. He had slipped out of addiction recovery when he was murdered at age 20 but was about 2 weeks from going into a residential program. In some of his last words to me he messaged, “I’m thankful that I have the family I do specially in times like this where you’ll stay by my side when I’m at my absolute worst…It means a lot to me. Thank you all so much for everything.” And thank you VFJ for staying by my side “through the absolute worst” time of my life.

Murder robbed Brandon of his life. Murder changed my life, my family’s lives, and Brandon’s friends’ lives forever. VFJ is there with us in the continuing, ongoing aftermath for as long as we need them and no words can convey how very grateful I am for that support. I miss you Brandon. I love you always and forever.

-Nancy Furlow, Grandmother of a Homicide Victim