97. Veterans Day Weekend 2013

Although I'm not usually at a loss for words, I cannot adequately describe the whirlwind of incredible experiences I've been fortunate enough to enjoy this Veterans Day weekend.  Perhaps I should simply let the record speak for itself; it will do justice to the events that have brought me to the brink of happy tears more than any words I might offer.  On this Veterans Day 2013, I thank all my brothers and sisters from the bottom of my heart for your selflessness and sacrifice - this great nation owes you a debt of gratitude that can never truly be repaid:

MSNBC - "Taking the Hill" Panel on Remembrance:

http://www.msnbc.com/taking-the-hill/watch/the-influence-of-9-11-62748227554

ABC/FoxNews - "Good Day Columbus" Interview:

http://abc6onyourside.com/shared/news/features/good-day/stories/wsyx_monday-veteran-featured-cosmopolitan-magazine-6021.shtml#.UoFNgKXHJfM

Tiffin University - Veterans Day Ceremony Speech:

Today is Veterans Day. Though sometimes confused with Memorial Day, today is about service. It’s about thanking a veteran for their sacrifices and rejoicing in the fact we are all fortunate to live in a great country where our freedom is attributable to selfless service. It’s been said that, “war has a way of distinguishing between the things that matter and the things that don’t.” You can ask any veteran if that’s true, and no matter what his or her experiences in the military have been, I can guarantee you the answer will an emphatic yes.

My name is Jenna Grassbaugh, and I’m a third year law student at the Ohio State University Moritz College of Law. I’m also an active duty Army Captain, a veteran of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and the proud Gold Star wife of another veteran, a veteran who taught me to recognize what matters and what doesn’t. That veteran, my late husband, Captain Jonathan Grassbaugh, lived by the motto “non sibi,” – “not for oneself.” He told me that despite the challenges life, law school, and the future might bring, at the end of the day, what mattered was that we had each other. He promised he would love me through the best of the best times and the worst of the worst.

He was standing at a pay phone in Iraq when he uttered these words. You see, six weeks after we were married, he was deployed for a second time with the 82nd Airborne Division. Ten months after our wedding, on April 7, 2007, two Army officers knocked on my door to tell me that Jon had been killed by an Improvised Explosive Device in Zaganiyah, Iraq. Despite our hopes of starting a family and growing old together, our dream was not to be. Jon was twenty-five years old when he died.

During a trip home from Washington, D.C. last year, I was at Reagan Airport for an early morning flight and, as usual, I had over-packed. As I checked my heavy bag in at the ticket counter and then hoisted it up onto the screening belt, I was struck by a sudden sense of déjà vu. I've been here before, I thought. This all seems incredibly familiar. It was in that moment that I remembered lifting a similar bag up onto the same conveyor belt over six years ago as I prepared to leave D.C. after Jon's funeral. On that first trip, I felt weighed down - both physically and emotionally. Leaving my husband's body behind was hard enough; contemplating what on earth to do with the rest of my life seemed unimaginable. My bag was heavy and full, only instead of clothes and shoes, it contained things like a wooden flag box, a folded American flag, brass casings from the 21-gun salute, and a plastic container full of all the letters Jon had ever written me. I was a 22-year old widow going home, only I didn’t know where home was without Jon. It was the worst of the worst times, and I had to navigate them without the one person I knew could show me the way.

Over these past six years, I’ve tried so many different things to overcome this tragedy, though I don't think you ever truly “get over” the loss of someone who made this world a better and brighter place. I withdrew from my first year of law school at William & Mary and threw myself into my Army career. I deployed to Iraq as a Military Police platoon leader. I ran races to raise money for organizations that help the families of fallen soldiers. Eventually, I realized I still wanted to serve in the Judge Advocate General’s Corps, and I applied to the Army’s Funded Legal Education Program. I began law school again – this time at Ohio State. It wasn’t until last fall, however, that I realized there might still be more I could do to turn my worst nightmare into a positive good. I realized I had the power to ensure that Jon’s belief in selfless service would live on into perpetuity and that I could help others in need in the process.

Here in the state of Ohio, there are more than 900,000 veterans. As I’ve discovered, not everyone understands exactly what constitutes a veteran or can appreciate the kind of unique legal issues they often face after returning home from what might be their first, second, or even fifth deployment. A veteran is anyone who has served overseas during a time of war. It is not, necessarily, the forty-five-year-old Colonel who retires with full benefits after twenty years. Instead, it might very well be the Staff Sergeant who served two tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan, and then separates from the Army with child support payments, debt issues, and severe post-traumatic stress disorder. The more research I did, the more the problems facing veterans caused me concern. The Legal Aid Society of Columbus is overwhelmed by a caseload that requires specialized knowledge and expertise, and, as of last fall, there was no central location to which Ohio's veterans could go for help.

With this knowledge, I started brainstorming ideas for how to go about providing free legal services for veterans. I realized that Ohio State did not have a clinic dedicated to tackling veterans’ issues, and I decided it was time to change that reality. I'd also reached a rough point personally in dealing with some of the issues associated with Jon's death, many of which I think I'd more or less suppressed up until that point. My hopelessness at how to deal with things completely beyond my control gave me the motivation I needed to do something more tangible with the time and resources I had at my disposal. On October 26, 2012, I attended a Veterans Wraparound Summit hosted by former Ohio Supreme Court Justice Evelyn Stratton, which provided me with the tools I needed to understand the complexities of the legal issues facing veterans. From there, I used the models of several preexisting clinics at other law schools around the country to approach the Moritz faculty with an informal proposal for a similar project. After much discussion and compromise, we agreed on a basic structure for the program: the Captain Jonathan D. Grassbaugh Veterans Project would pair veterans with law students to help them sort through their legal issues and find solutions. Practicing attorneys – many current JAG lawyers in the Ohio National Guard – would volunteer to supervise the student work.

I donated the seed money, endowing the fund with $250,000 of the insurance funds I received upon Jon's death, and the law school is currently engaged in a fundraising drive to match that amount. This will ultimately enable us to provide 2,000 hours of free legal services to veterans annually. The Captain Jonathan Grassbaugh Veterans Project was officially launched on April 5, 2013, just two days before the sixth anniversary of Jon's death. The project is up and running today, and Moritz students are actively assisting veterans as we speak.

I can honestly say that it was not until I founded the Grassbaugh Veterans Project that I finally felt a sense of real peace and happiness. The mission of the project means more to me than any material thing that money could ever buy. This is Jon’s legacy and it’s one that will go on long after I’m gone too. It means that my other very worst fear will not come true – that being that, in time, he’ll be forgotten.

Ironically, in the military, one person can feel very insignificant—success in combat depends on countless people at various times during multiples phases of a carefully-planned operation. The military is practically the poster child for the concepts of “communication” and “interaction” and “teamwork,” which is probably why the “Army of One” slogan didn’t do quite as well as “Be All You Can Be” or even “Army Strong.” The reality, however, is that without one person doing their job and playing their part, military precision breaks down. One person can make a difference – a big one. One person can have a vision for how to save lives or how to improve the status quo, and provided they can rally an army of supporters, so to speak, that vision can become a reality.

So, despite being cautioned against doing anything too drastic or giving away too much money, my stubborn determination to make the Grassbaugh Veterans Project a reality will ultimately, I hope, make a meaningful difference in the lives of others – others who have already given so much and sacrificed time away from their families and the safety of home to deploy overseas and fight for our freedom. Quite frankly, I never second-guessed my decision to pursue this vision or doubted the need see it through to completion. I was overwhelmed at the university’s support for the concept once I was able to demonstrate how we might make it happen. And once we got the ball in motion, it didn’t stop. I would have been happy to see this project become a reality by, say, the time I graduate in May of 2014. Instead, by the time I graduate, the project will have been up and running for an entire academic year, and law students will have helped to fight countless legal battles on behalf of veterans. It wasn’t a miracle, and I didn’t do anything extraordinary or superhuman. I just did what I thought was the right thing to do. This project is my attempt to identify and address veterans’ legal issues at a time when we can still prevent the worst of the worst from befalling our nation’s heroes.

A couple of weeks ago, I returned to Washington, D.C., a bittersweet place for me, and ran my fourth Army Ten Miler race. The course winds through the entire city, past the Smithsonian Museums and national monuments, across Memorial Bridge via Arlington National Cemetery, and ends back where it began at the Pentagon. I ran to raise money for Fisher House, the organization that came to the government’s aid during the recent shutdown when it provided funds to families of fallen soldiers to cover funeral costs and travel expenses. Later that weekend, I spoke at an event overlooking Arlington National Cemetery, where those who served our nation with dignity and honor are laid to rest – including Jon. At Arlington, Jon rests amongst many heroes, all of whom believed in the importance of selfless service and gave their lives to that end. Each of these heroes represents just one person, but one person who meant the whole world to their loved ones and left a lasting impact during their short lifetime. President Abraham Lincoln said that it’s not the years in a life – it’s the life in the years. Jon didn’t have the luxury of many years, but he was one person who managed to achieve so much and represented so many wonderful things: he was an Army Ranger. A Patriot. Leader. Friend. A loving husband. He made me a better person – and he still does.

Today is about the kind of selfless service in which Jon and all the soldiers he served alongside believed wholeheartedly. The Grassbaugh Veterans Project seeks to honor that selflessness and sacrifice by helping those who return home from war to live better and happier lives. The project is about distinguishing the things that matter from the things that don’t. Thank you to all veterans for what you have done and continue to do on behalf of all of us. You matter, and we are forever grateful.

96. The Ultimate Conundrum (Re-blogged from the Millennial Veteran Project)

Note:  The following article was originally published on the Millennial Veteran Project blog, a site that, for various reasons, is no longer operational.  

On August 30, 2013, the Department of Defense announced the death of a soldier who was supporting Operation Enduring Freedom.  His name was Staff Sergeant (SSG) Michael H. Ollis, and he was a native of Staten Island, New York.  SSG Ollis died of wounds sustained when insurgents attacked his unit with an improvised explosive device, small arms, and indirect fire.  He was 24 years old.

SSG Ollis’ family will now undergo the heartbreaking process of burying their beloved son, which will undoubtedly be followed by many years of questioning what could have been (and should have been), had things turned out differently.  Yet, the average American citizen is unlikely to know SSG Ollis’ name.  In fact, some Americans are unaware that we’re still at war in Afghanistan.  Nothing could be further from the truth, and yet the latest and greatest Hollywood scandal will undoubtedly get far more news coverage than the most recent American casualty from Operation Enduring Freedom.

Why is that?  Why do we care more about things like the birth of the royal baby than we do about the loss of American lives?  Have we become so emotionally desensitized that unless a record-breaking number of Soldiers die in one catastrophic incident (see, e.g. “Portraits of Lives Lost:  Thirty U.S. troops were killed Aug. 6, 2011, when their Chinook helicopter was shot down in Afghanistan,” available at http://www.washingtonpost.com/world/national-security/portraits-of-lives-lost/2011/08/09/gIQAWxmF5I_gallery.html#photo=1), we barely bat an eye and mindlessly continue on about our day?  Do we really need another World War II with its staggering loss of lives to feel anything resembling remorse and sadness these days?  Or will we be content to simply continue to push aside the more difficult and morally problematic issues until, after over twelve years, the war in Afghanistan is officially over?

And will it ever really be over?  For those of us who have already lost more than we could have imagined, the war will continue in some way or another for many years to come.  Combat operations may end, but the questions that continue to haunt us will lurk persistently just below the surface, always threatening to rear their ugly heads at the most inconvenient of times. As a veteran of both Iraq and Afghanistan and the widow of a Soldier who returned home from Iraq in a flag-draped casket, I often struggle with the ultimate conundrum:  Are we simply giving up after twelve hard fought years?  And if so, what does that mean about the sacrifices we have made? Should we just give up and walk away after attempting to eradicate terrorism from that area of the world for more than a decade? 

  

Or should we continue to stick it out until we’ve achieved “mission success?”  And what does that even mean in these asymmetric conflicts against non-state actors?  On the one hand, mission success, however you choose to define it, is the quintessential foundation of my military career; on the other, I intimately understand the finality and loss that comes with death. It’s permanent in a way that nothing else is in this world.  I’ve seen one too many heartbroken families whose lives are forever changed when they are suddenly forced to continue on without the husband, wife, father, mother, son or daughter who made their life worth living.  For those of us who find ourselves facing this unthinkable reality, the question we avoid at all costs and can’t help but come back to over and over again is relatively simple:  why? 

Given this conundrum, you might imagine how I felt when an article was published this summer regarding the contemplated immediate withdrawal of U.S. troops from Afghanistan (see “U.S. Considers Faster Pullout in Afghanistan,” available at http://www.nytimes.com/2013/07/09/world/asia/frustrated-obama-considers-full-troop-withdrawal-from-afghanistan.html?_r=0).  I looked around with a momentary sense of panic and thought, “Wait! We’re still here, and there is still so much to be done!” However, my next thought, was, “well, actually, maybe withdrawal would be for the best.”

Like many, my feelings are incredibly mixed. Like any trained soldier, I never want to leave a problem unsolved, but I wonder how much more good can come from our continued presence in Afghanistan.  Further complicating my views is the fact that my husband, Jon, was killed in Iraq, and I served there as a Platoon Leader a year later.  In 2011, we officially withdrew from the region, leaving many of the same problems we’d faced during my tour still unresolved.  As I watched the video footage of the last of our vehicles crossing the Iraq border into Kuwait, I was filled with an unsettling feeling of disappointment and relief – disappointment at the fact that we’d abandoned the mission my husband died for, and relief at the fact that it was all finally over.

Barely two years later, much of Iraq has returned to its former chaotic state of violence.  Just recently I read an article that included a photo of the marketplace we patrolled through every day in Mahmudiyah, Iraq - it used to be relatively safe and secure, but had recently been targeted by several suicide bombs and looks to be an absolute catastrophe once again.  (see “Deadly Blasts Rock Southern Iraqi Cities,” available at http://www.aljazeera.com/news/middleeast/2013/06/201361673910345481.html).  It makes me wonder what, if anything, we’ve learned over this past decade, and whether things will be different this time around given the recent rumblings about contemplated military intervention in Syria.  Many political commentators are comparing the current situation to the one we faced years ago in deciding whether to invade Iraq.  I recall all too vividly how it felt as an eighteen-year-old ROTC Cadet to witness the symbolic toppling of Saddam Hussein’s infamous statue on the news – at the time, my friends and I celebrated what we thought was a quick and easy victory.  But that was before the human cost of the decision to invade hit all too close to home, and my present-day feelings are far less celebratory.  This time, my instinct is to shudder when I think about the potential consequences of getting involved in another conflict before we’ve figured out how to “end” the current one.  Perhaps Plato had it right – only the dead have seen the end of war, especially when the war never truly ends.

In 1963, country music singer Skeeter Davis released a song entitled “The End of the World.”  Among many unanswerable questions, Skeeter asked why:  “Why does my heart go on beating?  Why do these eyes of mine cry?   Don’t they know it’s the end of the world?  It ended when you said goodbye.”  As Americans, we love a good story with a nice, neat, happy ending, but for those of us who never got to say goodbye, the realities of life are messy, and the whys will always remain.  History will undoubtedly offer many explanations for the decisions that were made, but no explanation can justify the loss of what cannot be replaced.  The catastrophic losses we suffered during World War II are often equated with a righteous victory, but for those families directly affected by those losses, there will always be questions like the ones SSG Ollis’ family will ask themselves in the days and years ahead:  Why my son?  Why my husband?  Why my father?  Although times may have changed, the answer is still the same:  there is no answer.  There never is. 

95. Happy

"No one can take away your pain...so don't let anyone take away your happiness."
~Unknown

It's been too long since I last wrote, and for that there have been several reasons. Believe it or not, all of them are good. Good, you say? During a deployment to Afghanistan? Yep, believe it or not, this has truly been an experience I feel grateful to have had, albeit for a relatively short period of time.

Quite frankly, I'd stay here for longer if I could. I've learned more in just a few months in this environment than I could ever have hoped to learn in the equivalent time back at home. It may sound strange to hear me say that I feel relatively "happy" in Afghanistan, but truthfully, I can say it without hesitation. I work with wonderful people, I have loving friends and family waiting for me back at home, and I have gained invaluable insight into a delicate situation about which I can now express an informed opinion. Personally and professionally, it doesn't get much better than that. My experience here in Afghanistan has been markedly different than my previous deployment to Iraq, perhaps most notably because it's been six years since Jon's death and I'm not inextricably linked to the very same country where he spent the last days of his life. This separation, both in terms of time and distance, has allowed me to see things with much more clarity and peace of mind than I've felt in a very long time. To say that I'm relieved to have the weight of grief become a less burdensome thing to carry does not do justice to the extent of my gratitude.

Over the past six years, I've done a lot of things that have almost guaranteed my own unhappiness. I've subsconsciously refused to believe that I could be as happy again as I once was and, consequently, I've worked really hard to compile my very own recipe book of disasters for continued emotional hardship. That stops now. When I return to Ohio in a few weeks, I will turn my attention to ensuring that the Grassbaugh Veterans Project accomplishes its goal of helping veterans, and, in doing so, I anticicpate much joy at seeing the fruits of our labor in action. I'm going to focus on my family and friends and try not to worry so much about the things I can't change that tend to send me into a downward spiral of depression and self-destruction. Last but not least, I'm going to loosen my grip on cynicism and allow myself to experience love and true happiness. My favorite U.S. President, Abraham Lincoln, once said that "people are just as happy as they make up their minds to be."  At this point, I've practically become an expert at making things unnecessarily complicated for myself, and, as a result, I've experienced one too many bad days. Mr. Lincoln dealt with a lot of complicated issues during his presidency, but I think he hit the proverbial nail on the head here: it really is as simple as making the decision to be happy.

I'm happy to say that my mind is made up. Happiness is on the agenda, and I'm not settling for anything less.

94. Still

"Imagine everything you ever wanted shows up one day and calls itself your life. And then, just when you start to believe in it - gone. And suddenly it gets very hard to imagine a future." 
~Side Effects

For some people, death is the scariest thing on their list of fears. For others, forgetting those who have died or failing to find some meaning in their deaths is far scarier. Those of us who are left behind are already serving a proverbial life sentence - why fear the very thing that set them free? I work long hours over here in Afghanistan, but I still have too much time to think about these things. When I hear about Soldiers dying, my heart breaks for their families. The truth is (and I don't say this to be morbid, nor do I have a death wish), I would much rather it were me than someone with a wife and kids waiting for them at home. And yes, in case there was any doubt, after six long years, I still feel that way. It may not be quite so prevalent in everything I do and say as in the past, but it's still the truth.

"Still." How I hate that word. It seems to suggest there will come a time when this won't be my reality. As time continues to pass, I become more and more certain that that day will ever come. I think I've gotten pretty good at putting on an exterior show of the fact that "I'm fine." It's a necessity in my line of work. Maybe I'm wrong about that - maybe people see right through my act to the heart on my sleeve and the guarded defensiveness in my eyes. For now, though, I'm going to tell myself that I'm doing a decent job of masking what I can't ever really hide.

It's funny, you know. It used to be that when I looked at people, especially men, I noticed hands and eyes. Now I notice wedding rings, and I think about what that ring says about the person. Maybe they're married to the love of their life, and maybe they'd feel the same way I do if they ever lost that person. Maybe their marriage isn't great, but they remain faithful and committed because they took an oath to do so and refuse to go back on their word. Or maybe they're like the man in my last attempted relationship: They wear the ring when they feel like it to pretend that they're living the picture-perfect, happy American life, but, in reality, the words fidelity and commitment mean nothing to them. Am I still bitter about that? You would think so, right? But, honestly, no. I no longer dwell on the pain he caused or the lies that constituted the basis of our entire relationship. But I don't doubt that I'll never quite be the same when it comes to my ability to trust in people or believe in the inherent goodness of mankind. As a good friend of mine pointed out, there's a reason they say you can never get rid of the weeds. I'll try to remember that more often when I ask myself the dreaded question: Why do bad people get to live while good people have to die? And yes, I still ask it. And no, there's still no answer. I wonder what people think when they see the two rings on my right hand...

As one might guess, I have a love-hate relationship with the Army. Still. There are so many bittersweet moments that cause me to take pause and imagine what could have been and should have been. Since Jon died, it's always been the little things - the day-to-day things - that strike hardest where it hurts most. Initially, I looked for him in everyone, everywhere, hoping he'd somehow magically turn up where I needed him. I'd see him in other Soldiers - the way they walked or the way they laughed. I've stopped looking for him in those places; now it's all about those little things. Just the other day, for example, I decided to recycle a couple of pairs of Army PT shorts that were well past their prime. You'd think this would be a relatively simple and emotionless activity, right? Wrong. I suddenly remembered that Jon had taken these shorts with him to Iraq and, as he always did, he wrote his name on the labels so they wouldn't get mixed in with someone else's things. They were really too small for him - he wore large shorts and I wear mediums - but the thought of him squeezing into my too-small-for-him shorts always made me laugh. This revelation changed my decision-making process completely. Could I bring myself to throw away something he'd worn, that had physically touched his skin?

At this point, I've gotten used to look on the faces of the Army movers when they come to pack up my household goods for one of my many moves to a new duty location - they seem surprised (and perhaps even a little annoyed) that one person could own such a vast quantity of stuff. That's because I really have enough stuff for two people - myself and Jon. Many of the things I continue to hold onto that belonged to him are trivial, silly even, but I can't bring myself to get rid of them because they were his. He was a real person, a living and breathing person, and he had things that reflected what he liked and who he was. So who am I to decide that it's time for these things to go? I can't just discard them like they meant nothing to him. The fact that that they meant something to him means that they continue to mean something to me. His all-too-familiar handwriting is proof of the fact that he was once here by my side - he put pen to paper, and he wrote things like "I love you and I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you." He wasn't just a figment of my imagination or a fantasy of a life I wished were mine. He was real. We were real.

So, to return to the PT shorts, my solution to my dilemma was to remove the faded, discolored labels with his handwriting and store them safely in a zip-lock bag until I return home to the United States. I don't know what I'll do with them when I get there - probably add them to the box of cards, pieces of scrap paper, and post-its I've kept over the years that bear the evidence of the person I love. My point is, though, that the simplest of things continue to add fuel to the fire of my post-Jon existence. In many ways, I still feel stuck, like I'm just treading water and waiting for the nightmare to finally end. Still. "Still" almost feels like it's becoming my new version of "forever." The word itself is short and simple, but the meaning it carries is heavy and, at times, unforgiving.

In 1998, Canadian country music singer Shania Twain co-wrote and recorded a song titled "You're Still the One." Although Twain and co-writer Mutt Lange divorced in 2008 after 14 years of marriage, the words of that song continue to hold great meaning for me. I'd like to be able to tell Jon that he's still the one - still the one I run to, the one that I belong to, still the one I want for life. He's still the one that I love, the only one I dream of, and still the one I kiss good night. Still. Always. Forever.

93. They Say...

“How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on when in your heart you begin to understand there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend, some hurts that go too deep, that have taken hold.” 

~Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King

They say everything can be fixed.
I disagree: Not everything.
What I can’t fix literally haunts me.

They also say we always want what we can’t have.
They might be right about that: Those that are old would give anything to be young again, and those that are young just want to be old enough to be taken seriously. The rich want to be richer, the poor want to be richer. Those who lead normal lives wish for more excitement. Those who live under a microscope of public scrutiny curse the price of fame. When I wake up in the morning, I keep my eyes closed for a few extra seconds and hope that when I open them, things will be different – the tattoo with the date of Jon's death will be gone, Jon will be at his computer checking the headlines on CNN.com, and everything will be okay. But when I open my eyes, my tattoo with that life-changing date is still there. I'm alone, and Jon is no where to be found. And everything is still not okay.

They say I have to go through all the stages of grief and that one day I’ll finally be “done” mourning Jon’s death. But I go through multiple different stages throughout the course of one day. To suggest that I’ll ever "get over" the love of my life seems ridiculous and, quite frankly, downright insulting. I’m beginning to doubt that this process will ever really be over for me. They say everyone has their own timeline and that I don’t have to rush anything until I’m ready. It's been six years and on some days, I still can't even say his name without breaking down in tears. So, I guess my timeline is really, really slow. And to be honest, I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready. I can’t let him go. I can’t just compartmentalize my life with Jon and put away all the things that remind me of him. There are few things to which I’ll voluntarily admit defeat, but this might have to be one of them.

They say that "the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path - one that we all must take. The gray rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass. And then you see it: White shores...and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise."

I truly hope they are right about that.