Monday, May 27, 2019

#MemorialDay Memories Owen Downing, my dad

My dad was a career Senior Chief Gunner's Mate in the U.S. Navy.
On the right is a classic "era" pose.
On the left is a photo that was on the front page of the San Diego Union-Evening Tribune during Fleet Week around 1957.
He was proud to serve his country. He served it well.
Rest in Peace, this Memorial Day, Chief.


Re: September 21, 2002 (the day my dad went home to heaven)

You didn’t argue with my dad. I never saw him hit anyone, but he was a physical presence. He umpired softball—adult male fast-pitch and high school girls—for over 30 years. He also was a volleyball referee for a long time. I know players and coaches didn’t always agree with my dad’s calls, but they knew he always hustled to be in the correct position to make a call, so they rarely argued.

This photo was in a local newspaper. The player making the tag was one of my Biology students at Monte Vista High School.
During his life, my dad donated well over 30 gallons of blood. He had to stop donating when he turned 80. While there was no age restriction. The problem at 80 was leukemia that commonly manifested itself in males of his age group.
My sister (on the right) made this quilt from some of his most colorful t-shirts the San Diego Blood Bank gave donors.
Before, during, and for some time after WWII, my dad cleaned the 5"/38 caliber guns on his ships with benzene—now a known carcinogen. In addition, nearly all insulation on the ships was asbestos. Dozens of other now-banned chemicals were in common use during most of my dad’s active duty.

What ultimately caused my dad to go to his doctor was a combination of what the blood bank told him and his fatigue. He started a regimen of blood transfusions. Over time, he required the transfusions at shorter and shorter intervals.

I would go to Dad’s oncology visits with my dad, mom, and sister. I knew more biology than they did, and I wanted to ask a question or answer a question once we got home based on what I’d heard.

What happened at Dad’s last visit to the oncologist is worthy of reporting.
  • Dad’s oncologist was a retired Navy doctor. He always called my dad Chief, although Dad retired 40 years earlier.
  • “Chief, you’ve got to make a decision.”
  • My dad nodded.
  • “We can put you in the hospital and give you chemotherapy treatments. If we do that, you’ll die in the hospital from the treatments.”
  • My mom inhaled sharply. My sister looked shocked. My dad leaned forward, ready for the next option.
  • “Or, you can go home, not take any treatments, and die there, in a place you know and with people you love and who love you around you.”
  • While the reactions of my mom and sister remained pretty much the same, Dad’s whole body relaxed. He sat back, and an almost visible cloud of peace settled over him. There really was only one choice in his mind.

The last time my dad left his house was Labor Day, 2002 when he, my mom, sister, and brother-in-law grilled on my patio. We helped my Dad to the car.

The next week, Hospice came by. Within days, they delivered a hospital bed to the house. Finally, on September 21, a young woman whose family had unofficially adopted our as their own, asked if she could come and sing a song to Dad.

She was singing the third verse of “Thank You (for giving to the Lord)” when he became agitated. The “adopted” family left then. 

Soon thereafter, with the nuclear family gathered around him, my dad gave a deep sigh. What is dubbed the “death rattle” followed.

I checked for a pulse, but I knew he had died.

At Rosecrans National Cemetary on Point Loma
in San Diego. Memorial Day 2008

Every living thing has a life span. Some are very short—only hours in a few species—https://themysteriousworld.com/top-10-shortest-living-animals-in-the-world/. Trees like the Bristlecone Pine have documented lives exceeding 1500 years.

I hope your take away from this blog is a sense of comfort or completeness. Do I miss my dad? You bet! Nature recycles all organic material. Therefore, without death, there can be no new life.

Do I enjoy seeing my mom, now 97 years old, lose her mental capacities. I do NOT! Memory is a magnificent gift. And, as I watch my granddaughters playing, for that I am very grateful for new life and memories both new and old. 

Please don’t feel sorry for me. I have faith that if I continue in my relationship with Christ, that I will see my dad again.

Blessings on you and your family this Memorial Day.

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