The lifetime gift of Pfc. Givens Fort Carson tank crewman killed in Iraq shows widow, 2 young sons that the pen is mightier than the sword By Jim Sheeler, Rocky Mountain
News
The first letter is stained by the muddy river in Iraq where Jesse
Givens died, smearing his handwriting, ripping apart his last words.
"I don't know if you will ever understand the light you brought into
my life," reads one of the surviving sentences. "I want you to know
I have every moment we ever spent together in my heart."
The second letter was found in his wallet - wet and wrinkled, but fully
intact - pressed against a tiny flower he brought from Colorado. It begins
with the end.
My angel, my wife, my love, my friend. If you're reading this, I
won't be coming home . . .
The final letter arrived a month after the funerals, memorial services
and gun salutes. It came in the mail, delivered to Melissa Givens in the
maternity ward, where she had just given birth to the son Jesse Givens
would never hold.
Inside was her husband's final draft:
My family:
I never thought I would be writing a letter like this, I really don't
know where to start. I've been getting bad feelings though and well if you
are reading this . . .
I searched all my life for a dream and I found it in you. . . . The
happiest moments in my life all deal with my little family. You will never
know how complete you have made me. Each and every one of you. You saved
me from loneliness and taught me how to think beyond myself. You taught me
how to live and to love. You opened my eyes to a world I never even
dreamed existed . . .
The 34-year-old soldier with the 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment from Fort
Carson had been in Iraq for a less than a month when he mailed the letter,
unable to shake a sense of dread - and a need to say goodbye.
On May 1, as he helped to snuff fires set by insurgents, his tank
crashed through a berm and fell into a canal off the Euphrates River. The
rest of the crew escaped through a hatch, but Givens was trapped inside.
Of all the dangers they were warned about, of all the terrible scenarios
that went through the minds of his family, it was a scene nobody imagined:
Pfc. Jesse A. Givens drowned in the desert.
He was the first of 44 Fort Carson soldiers to die in Iraq. He was the
139th of at least 567 U.S. troops to die since the war began. On the same
day Givens died, his commander-in- chief landed on an aircraft carrier
thousands of miles away, and declared an end to major hostilities.
Earlier this month, in her living room in Fountain only a few miles
from Fort Carson, Givens' 27-year-old widow picked up the three letters
that all try to say the same thing.
"He called me a week before it happened and told me he had written the
letter, but not to open it unless he died," Melissa Givens said. "When I
got his personal effects, I found another letter. Then the other one came.
"They were backup letters. In case one letter didn't make it, he wanted
to make sure we got one of the others," she said.
"But they were all goodbyes."
Dakota, you are more son than I could ever ask for. I can only hope
I was half the dad. You taught me how to care until it hurts, you taught
me how to smile again. You taught me that life isn't so serious and
sometimes you have to play. You have a big beautiful heart. Through life
you need to keep it open and follow it. Never be afraid to be yourself. I
will always be there in our park when you dream so we can still play
together. I hope someday you will have a son like mine. Make them smile
and shine just like you. I hope someday you will understand why I didn't
come home. Please be proud of me. Please don't stop loving life. Take in
every breath like it's your first. I will always be there with you. I'll
be in the sun, shadows, dreams, and joys of your life.
Dakota was just over a year old when they met. With a single,
mispronounced word, the little boy sealed the relationship.
"I had dated other people since I had Dakota, but he didn't like any of
them," Melissa said. "But when Jesse was here, (Dakota) went over and put
his hand on Jesse's knee and said -'You my danny.' That was his way of
saying 'daddy.' So I kept him. I figured, 'If the kid likes him, I'll keep
him.' "
They met in 1999, as employees at Shopko in Joplin, Mo. Jesse worked
security; Melissa was a cashier. He was a big-hearted, thoughtful bookworm
and budding artist. She was the opposite - in just about every way.
"We pretty much had nothing in common," she said. "He liked to read,
but if a book didn't have pictures I wouldn't read it. He was into his
future and his life and his family, and I wanted to party and do my own
thing."
She smiled, and shook her head.
"He worshipped the quicksand I walked on."
The two moved in together, and he found a job as an ironworker. He
helped raise Dakota and spent hours with him in the parks, building
memories he would later ask the boy to remember in his dreams.
That life froze on Sept. 11, 2001, as Givens watched his fellow
ironworkers on television during the rescue effort in New York City.
Within weeks, he traded his hard hat for a soldier's helmet.
"He was watching it all, and he said, 'I should be there. I should be
there,' " Melissa remembered. "And he was so patriotic. He thought that's
the way we all should believe."
The couple married as soon as he returned from basic training; the
family moved to Fort Carson in 2002. Soon afterward - just as the rhetoric
heated between the United States and Iraq, Melissa found out she was
pregnant.
When Dakota saw the first ultrasound, he said he thought the baby
"looked like a bean." The nickname stuck. While most soldiers waited for
their deployment, the Givenses waited for The Bean.
"We heard they were going to get their orders in August of 2002. But
they kept putting it off, and we thought, 'Well, maybe they'll put it off
until the baby's born,' " Melissa said.
"Then, on Valentine's Day, they got the orders."
Bean, I never got to see you but I know in my heart you are
beautiful. I will always have with me the feel of the soft nudges on your
mom's belly, and the joy I felt when we found out you were on the way. I
dream of you every night, and I always will. Don't ever think that since I
wasn't around that I didn't love you. You were conceived of love and I
came to this terrible place for love. Please understand that I had to be
gone so that I could take care of my family. I love you Bean.
In his mother's arms, 10-month-old Carson Givens raised his eyebrows in
a funny expression that Melissa recognized immediately from the face she
thought she'd never see again.
She calls the expression "Jesse's eyebrow thing." It bothers her, and
comforts her.
"Da-da-da-da-da," the infant gurgled.
"Yes, you're saying 'da-da-daddy.' Yeah, he's up there," Melissa said,
pointing to a portrait on the wall. "Up there."
From the portrait, Jesse Givens still watches over the living room.
"Carson looks at the picture when we start talking about (Jesse),"
Melissa said. "He used to look at his brother and say 'da da daddy.' But
one day Dakota took him up to the picture and said, 'No, I'm not your
daddy, this is your daddy.' And he told him a long story, that 'this is
only a picture of your daddy. Your daddy was killed in Iraq. He drowned in
a tank.' "
"Dakota told him, 'This is just a picture of your daddy. But he's
always in your heart.' "
Before the letters, there were the journals: stacks of the
black-and-white college composition books where Jesse scrawled his
thoughts. Recently, his wife finally started going through them. He knew
she would.
"There was one part of a journal that said, 'If you're reading this
I've been deployed and you're snooping through my stuff,' " she said with
a smile, flipping through pages, until she found the one that still gives
her chills:
25 Nov. 2002
I am not going to pretend that I understand why we are thinking
about going to war with Iraq. I know the reasons you have given - some
seem more credible than others. No matter what the reasons, I will go and
fight with all my heart. Not to win a war, but to come home to my wife and
my children. I took an oath to protect my country. Not for the sake of
saving the world, but for the hopes that my family wouldn't have to live
in a world filled with hate, fear and sadness - a world which America was
exposed to on Sept. 11, 2001. If we are involved in combat and I fall, who
will raise my children? Who will be there for my wife? I sacrifice not
only my life, but a husband and a father's life also. Who will see that my
wife can support my children through all of their years? Who will provide
my family with their -basic needs? I didn't ask for your pity or money, I
just ask that we do this for the right reasons. I ask that when you send
soldiers into battle, that they are not just numbers. I ask that you see
our roles as fathers, sons, daughters, wives and husbands - as well as
seen as the proud Americans who want to serve our country. When all is
said and done, will we, the United States military, shed blood, or pass at
the hands of our enemies for a just cause? Will you remember those who we
leave behind, and honor them as well as our fallen brothers and sisters?
Down in the basement, Jesse Givens' life is divided into two steamer
trunks: one for the boy he called "Toad," and one for the baby Bean.
"I want to save everything. I want the boys to see how good he was. At
everything he did," Melissa said. "Whatever I can hold onto."
From Dakota's trunk, she pulled out a dandelion blossom, which Jesse
had flattened and laminated.
"Dakota gave him this one day. He had it in his wallet (when he died),"
she said. "I didn't know he took it with him."
It rests near a piece of "Mr. Blankie."
"It's an old blanket. And it keeps falling apart, but Dakota will not
sleep without it," Melissa said. "And when pieces would fall off of it,
Jesse would pick the pieces up and braid them together."
Inside Iraq, underneath all the armor, his son's security blanket still
worked.
Dakota,
I saw a scorpion today. Do you know what a scorpion is? It's a big bug
with pinchers and a poisoned tail. This was as big as one of your (action
figure) guys and was black. He was scary looking. I had my piece of Mr.
Blankie with me so I'm sure that is what protected me. I miss you a lot.
You know you are the best boy in the world. I hope you are alright, I
worry about you all the time. I can't wait to come home and give you
bellyfishes (tickles). I love you son. Don't forget to say your prayers
and dream about us at the park. Love always, Dad
As she dug to the bottom of the trunk, Melissa found a piece of their
lives before the war - Jesse's old ironworker's hard hat. On the back, he
had written two names: "Toad" and "Angel."
"Toad is there because Dakota couldn't say his name when they first
met, he could only say 'Toada.' So Jesse always called him Toad," Melissa
said, and then stopped.
"Angel is me," she finally said. "Because he always thought I was his
angel who saved him. But it was actually the other way around - he was
mine. Because he fixed my life.
"I did some not-so-great things, and he took me away from all that. He
showed me how to make good choices. He gave me Carson. And then he passed
away. And I think that was what he was meant to do. To help me fix my
life."
Atop one of the trunks, she picked up a small white goose down feather.
"Dakota and me decided that every time we see a feather like this, that
means that an angel passed by," she said, smiling as she remembered
another story:
"One night I fell asleep with Carson in my bed," she said.
That night Dakota had a bad dream, so he came in and curled up
alongside them. During the night, the bedding shed several white down
feathers, which stuck to the lotion on the infant's face.
In the morning, Dakota woke up, looked at his baby brother, and
awakened his mother.
"Dakota said, 'Look, Mommy,' and pointed to the feathers," Melissa
said.
"He said, 'Daddy slept with us last night.' "
Melissa sent several letters to her husband. They all remain in the
basement, returned by the military, unopened.
"The only one he got was the one I gave him in person," she said. "On
the day he left."
That first and final letter from Melissa was sent home along with his
things, neatly packaged with his goodbye letters. Like many of his
possessions, it was sealed by the Army in a clear plastic sleeve that
Melissa was instructed not to open, since it may have come into contact
with dangerous chemicals inside the tank.
Since she can't open the protective sleeve, she can only read the first
side:
Jesse. My baby. Since I know you like letters so much I figured I
would start writing before you left so you would have something to read
until I could write again. There are some things I need to make sure that
you know . . .
Don't worry. You did what you did to take care of us. I want you to
know that no matter how this breaks my heart I realize that you only want
what is best for us, and I am proud of you. You're my husband, my best
friend, and I am very proud of you. I know you wanted to be here at the
baby's birth, and it breaks my heart that you won't be. But I will be
okay, and so will Dakota, we will make sure that the baby knows all about
you. . . . We will be here waiting for you to come home. Just be sure you
do come home.
At the last line, she held up the letter to shield her welling eyes. On
the back of the letter's plastic sleeve, the military stamp glared:
"Please Be Advised the Contents May Contain Hazardous Material."
Throughout the neighborhood in Fountain this month, yellow ribbons and
"welcome" banners dangled from nearly every house, as thousands of
soldiers from Fort Carson finally arrived home. On a recent day, two doors
down from the Givens' house, one soldier stood in his driveway, fixing his
motorcycle, still dressed in fatigues.
"I realized I can't avoid it," Melissa said. "I was going to go home
(to Missouri) this month, but I changed my mind. I'm going to have to get
used to it. All these guys coming home this month, that's going to hurt
like hell."
Still, instead of averting her eyes, she says she's trying to find a
schedule that keeps her busy. Along with Dakota's school, his karate
classes and Carson's feedings, however, her new definition of a "normal"
routine includes regular meetings with a group of widows - few of them
older than 30.
Thanks to Givens' life insurance and the military death benefits,
Melissa figures she'll be able to concentrate on Carson and Dakota instead
of having to find a job. It's an enormous relief, she said, since the
busiest part of her day often comes in the middle of the night.
"Sometimes I'll find Dakota crying in a corner downstairs, still
asleep," she said. "I'll find him in different places all over the house,
crying. Those are the scariest nights."
Then there are her own nightmares. After midnight, she'll sometimes
find herself in the basement, avoiding the dreams by scribbling in her
journal. On others, she'll spend hours writing to friends - and sometimes
even to strangers - online.
Nine months after her husband's death, she logged on to a Web site
called fallenheroesmemorial.com, where people from around the nation have
posted tributes to her husband. Alone in the basement that night, she
began to type:
Jesse, hey baby . . . Just when I think it's going to get a little
better it starts to hurt so bad again . . .
Dakota and I talk about heaven and I tell him you are there waiting for
us, he wanted you to ask God that when he gets to go there if he can be a
little boy again so you can give him piggy back rides. He also asked if
they have parks there so the two of you can play. He told me that he was
sorry he wasn't being good the last time you took him to the park. I tell
him it's ok and you understand and he can tell you when he gets there . .
. through my tears I can't see to type anymore . . .
When deployment day finally arrived on April 6, 2003, Melissa and
Dakota felt like they were the ones leaving. Neither said goodbye.
Melissa was sick, seven months pregnant and overwhelmed with tears.
Dakota went to play with the other children at the post. Melissa continued
to cry.
After waiting several hours for the bus to come and take her husband
away, Melissa finally decided she couldn't take the stress.
After midnight, she put Dakota in the car, and drove away.
"The last thing I remember is looking in the rearview mirror, and him
standing in the parking lot, crying," Melissa said.
"Since then I've thought, 'Should I have stayed for those extra couple
of minutes?' I've felt a lot of guilt about that. For not staying as long
as I could have.
"We've never been good at saying goodbye," she said. "The only other
time he really left was when I dropped him off at the bus station once
when he went back to see his mom - I dropped him off at the bus station
and just drove away.
"I'm really good at just driving away."
As Dakota played with a stack of Legos nearby, the little boy listened
to his mother talk, reminded of the last day he saw his father.
"And I didn't really say 'bye to him," the boy said, his eyes wide. "I
just wanted to play."
"I know," his mother said. "But that's OK, Dakota, he understood that
you wanted to play with the other kids. And I know that you now kinda feel
bad, that you wish you'd stayed with him more. But he understands that.
And when you get to heaven you'll get to hang out with him then."
"But how will I find him?" Dakota asked. "It's a big place."
"I think you just know," his mother said.
I have never been so blessed as the day I met Melissa. You are my
angel, soulmate, wife, lover, and my best friend. I am sorry. I did not
want to have to write this letter. There is so much more I need to say, so
much more I need to share. A million lifetimes' worth. I married you for a
million lifetimes. That's how long I will be with you. Please keep
our babies safe. Please find it in your heart to forgive me for leaving
you alone. . . . Do me a favor, after you tuck Toad and Bean in, give them
hugs and kisses from me. Go outside look at the stars and count them.
Don't forget to smile.
Love Always
Your husband
Jess
Inside the living room, Melissa looked over at the couch, and up at the
high window in the living room, where the American flag from Jesse's
coffin is folded into a tight triangle, so that only the white stars are
visible - and beyond them, the dark sky outside.
"If you lay on that couch on a clear night, you can see the stars
perfectly," she said.
On most nights, she'll lie here and do as he asked, counting the stars,
and thinking about him. On this night, as a cold front blew in, the window
was filled with only dim, gray mist.
On nights like this, she said, she doesn't like to look outside. She
doesn't need to.
"You can't see the stars tonight," she said, looking away.
"Somewhere, in the back of my mind, behind the clouds, I know they're
there."
On the night before what would have been Jesse's 35th birthday, Melissa
and Dakota walked to the boy's bedroom, carrying a videotape filled with
traditional good-night stories - along with a new one.
"He wanted to make this so that whenever Dakota wanted to have his dad
there to read his favorite bedtime stories, all he had to do was put in
the tape and his dad would be there to read to him," Melissa said.
Underneath another portrait of Jesse that dominates the room, Melissa
walked to the VCR near the boy's television set, and pushed "play."
On the screen, Jesse appeared on the couch, looking exhausted, holding
a book called, What Daddies Can't Do, alongside Dakota. In the
corner of the screen, the date flashed, "April 5, 2003."
His last night at home.
On the tape, Jesse read The Lorax and The Very Hungry
Caterpillar. Then he turned to the boy on the couch. "You know why
we're making this?" he asked.
"So you can read me books," Dakota said.
"While I'm gone. . . . So I can read you books when I'm gone and you
can see me, and it'll be sorta like I'm here - sorta, but not really."
After he finished reading, there was a blank spot in the tape, and then
Jesse reappeared, in a scene he secretly recorded only hours before he
left.
OK, you guys. We did the stories. Now I want to take some time by
myself to tell you I love you very much. Melissa, please take care of
Dakota, and give him hugs and kisses. Dakota, please take care of your
mom. When the Bean gets here, tell him I love him very much. Sorry I
wasn't here. Give him hugs and kisses for me. Say your prayers every
night.
I'm with you all the time. My heart's with you, my mind's with you. My
soul's with you. You're my family. You've made me happier than I could
ever be, and I'll be home as soon as I can.
Dakota don't let the fuzzy butt-tickling monkey get you, or the
toe-eating alligator. Um, I'm not real good at this kind of stuff. Buddy,
I'm proud of you. You're the most wonderful boy a guy could have, and I'm
going to miss you a lot.
Melissa, I'm sorry I'm not going to be home. I'm sorry.
Sometimes it doesn't seem like I do everything I can. But I do the best I
can.
I love you guys. I'm going to miss you with all my heart, and I'll be
thinking about you all the time. I'll be praying for you. I'll be home as
soon as I can. I love you guys."
"Wait!" shouted Dakota, as Jesse left the screen, and Melissa moved to
push "stop."
"Wait!" he said.
"I want to kiss Daddy."
Melissa, frozen for a second, wiped her eyes, rewound the tape, and
watched the little boy bound from his bed.
As the end of the tape played again, Dakota walked to the television
and pressed his lips to the screen, on the image of his father's face. The
6-year-old then looked back, and found the words they all forgot to say:
"Bye-bye, Daddy."
sheelerj@rockymountainnews.com or 303-892-2561 Copyright 2004, Rocky Mountain News. All Rights Reserved. | ||||||||||||
