Captain Trevor Greene

This is another true story about me during my road to recovery.

It’s March 5, and I should be excited. We are 10 days away from departing on a trip-of-a-lifetime to Costa Rica. I’ve wanted to visit there ever since I was a child and in awe of nature. However, I am not excited. Right now, I am sitting at a desk in a library, having dropped off my daughter for her dance class, and I have an incredible itch to write. I need to express my thoughts.

So how do I feel? Torn apart inside. In a week’s time, there will be a ceremony in my city to commemorate 10 years since the end of Canadian Armed Forces operations in Afghanistan. I feel very conflicted about the whole thing. It feels too early for me personally but yet, it's appropriate at the same time. If not now, then when do we, as a nation, commemorate that conflict? It doesn’t matter though, since it has been decided to carry out a commemoration ceremony.

As I read through the news story about the upcoming event, I am struck by three words: Captain Trevor Greene. He will be there. Trevor has no idea who I am, but I know his story well. His story is unlike any other, at least for me.

Trevor was a part-time Army Reserve Officer deployed with the Civil-Military Coordination (CIMIC) Team in southern Afghanistan. In his other world, he was as a Vancouver-based journalist covering the city's notorious downtown Eastside; a place of open drug use, homelessness, crime, mental illness, and prostitutes. I've been there and it was difficult to witness the rawness of that area. When an opportunity come up, Trevor volunteered to deploy to Afghanistan. He would be a 41-year old journalist working to help rebuild communities in the expansiveness of southern Afghanistan.

In 2006, I was a junior officer within the Public Affairs operations team that supported Canadian military deployments around the world. Even though I was a junior officer, I was well versed when it came to our Afghanistan deployment. We suffered a number of casualties and our office was one of the points of contact for news agencies gathering information surrounding military activities in Afghanistan. My journey into Trevor’s story began on March 5, 2006. It strikes me that today is 18 years since his deployment came to abrupt halt.

On that day in 2006, while attending a shura, or meeting with respected tribal elders, Trevor removed his helmet. It was a customary show of respect and goodwill. Soon after, he was attacked by a teenager wielding a homemade axe. The attacker was immediately shot and killed by Trevor’s team but the axe had done its damage, nearly severing Trevor’s brain in half. Remarkably for me and many others, he survived the attack, but his future was uncertain to say the least. I was captivated by his story. I also found myself relating in some small way to him.

He joined the regular Navy at age 30; I joined as the part-time Naval Reserve at age 29. He switched to part-time Army Reserves. I switched to full-time military Public Affairs. As a Public Affairs Officer, I worked closely with journalists. Trevor was a journalist. As a military member, I wanted to deploy and Afghanistan was top of the list. He volunteered to go to Afghanistan. I have a degree in Biology and I was struck by his injury, believing no one could survive the type of attack he did. I paid attention to his recovery journey.

A year later, I was deployed to Afghanistan and worked very closely with our own CIMIC team. I become particularly close to one officer, riding many times with him in convoys. He was doing the same type of work that Trevor had been doing. I often thought about this strange connection as we bumped around in our armoured vehicles. At my first shura, I was anxious about removing my helmet. My lack of memory of that interaction doesn’t allow me to tell you whether or not I did in fact leave it on or not. At later shuras, I did remove my helmet, but always remembered Trevor’s story when I did, carefully checking my surroundings before lifting off my helmet.

When I returned from my deployment, I continued to follow Trevor’s journey. I read stories about him from time-to-time, saw him on the news, and made sure not to miss a 2015 TV news story where he walked across a stage with the assistance of an exoskeleton.

His face, his smile, and his bright blue eyes are etched in my memory. I was awestruck by the progress he had made by then. Honestly, I was one of many who did not think he would survive. After all, his brain was nearly severed in half. However, as I have learned during the many years of my own recovery, the brain is a remarkable thing, capable of so much.

In 2008, Trevor moved to Nanaimo, BC, a city about an hour north from the Navy base where I was stationed from 1999-2004. I was posted back to that same base in 2012. In 2015, as I watched Trevor on the TV, I think I secretly hoped I would cross paths with him one day. I am not sure what I would have said, but I think I just wanted to see the man whose incredible and courageous journey I had followed for some years.

About a year ago, I saw Trevor in the news again, this time being honoured by Rugby Canada. The connection was that Trevor had played rugby in his younger days. Oddly enough, I live about 1 kilometre away from Rugby Canada’s Headquarters and the field where they practice. I’ve seen the teams occasionally as I’ve walked my dog around the neighbourhood. It was another piece of this odd puzzle that has me thinking of Trevor periodically.

That brings me to today. Until now, I had no intention of attending any commemoration event, but that has changed. Trevor will be there and I have a chance to see him in person. I have an opportunity to perhaps hear him speak. The science part of me is fascinated, but the military part of me is scared.

Can I stand far enough away to be seen as a casual spectator? How will I feel at the ceremony? What would I do if somehow Trevor's and my eyes connected? Would I try to say hello? I have no idea what may happen, and I feel crazy even thinking about these things. Some reading this may feel like I am a bizarre stalker, but that isn’t it at all. It is an incredible curiosity, maybe the same kind that makes a person open “that” door to the cold, wet cellar in cheesy horror flick. None of it really matters right now anyways.

The realities that I am going have a difficult sleep tonight, if I sleep at all. Recently, my PTSD symptoms have poked their heads out again, and sleep has become frustratingly elusive. Reading that news story about the Afghanistan commemoration event has pretty much ensured I am going to be wide awake at some point tonight wondering where I am going to stand on March 12. Another thought I’m certain to mull over tonight is how to mention this latest development to my psychologist. After all, I meet with them again on March 12, about 2 hours before the Afghanistan commemoration ceremony begins. Sometimes, I really loathe what life throws my way.