Peter Damien Watson

Peter Damien Watson, everyone’s favorite buddy, left this world on March 9, 2025 at the age of 49, only a few months shy of his 50th birthday. As the light in so many lives, especially his dad’s, we are certain that heaven has gotten just a little bit brighter with Peter and his party-planning joining in.

Peter was born on July 1, 1975 in Ft. Knox, Kentucky to Leonie Sullivan Watson MD and Richard Watson MD. From the start it was clear that he was something special (he clearly had Down’s Syndrome, although one perceptive nurse thought he just looked like his father). With three doting older brothers, he immediately made his presence known, showing people his unique sign language and belly rolling skills until he mastered the long road to walking and talking. He would be joined by three more siblings, and set himself as the true center of the Watson family.

Moving from Kentucky to San Francisco, CA, to San Antonio, TX, to Ft. Belvoir, VA, to Evans, GA, he made a mark everywhere he went, shooting baskets with the paper shoe inserts while working as a footwear department assistant in Target, testing out fast-food chains across the nation, and befriending every church choir director he met along the way.

When his parents settled down in Mountainside, NJ, Peter settled there too, becoming a fixture at Our Lady of Lourdes Church as well as many other churches and restaurants throughout the tri-state area.

Everyone knew Peter and he was sure to introduce himself to everyone, both those he had met already and those he just hadn’t met yet. There are very few people left who don’t know when Peter’s birthday is, what the next treat or party is, and who is visiting “Catherine’s here!” “Cecilia’s here!” “Patrick’s here!” He was an evangelist for joy, making sure everyone could participate in his wonderful world fully with him.

The world will not be the same without hearing every day what the next adventure for Peter will be. He will be welcomed in heaven by his grandparents, his mother Leonie, and his brother Mark. He leaves behind his father, Richard, his siblings (John, Patrick, Daniel, Catherine, Michael, and Cecilia), in-laws, nieces, nephews, cousins, and so many more who were able to experience the wonderfulness of Peter Watson. He was a living lesson in the inherent value of every person. May his joy live on in everyone he touched, and may his love of life never be forgotten.

Peter’s Life Celebration and Visitation will be Wednesday March 19th from 2:00-4:00 and 6:00-8:00PM at Gray Funeral Home, 318 E. Broad Street, Westfield. His Mass of the Christian Burial will be celebrated at 10AM Thursday March 20, 2025 at Our Lady of Lourdes Church, 300 Central Avenue, Mountainside, NJ. Funeral services for Peter in Massachusetts will begin at 11:30AM Friday March 21, 2025 with a Funeral Mass at Blessed Sacrament Church, 1945 Northampton Street, Holyoke, MA, followed by interment in Notre Dame Cemetery, South Hadley, MA.

In lieu of flowers, please make a donation to the Special Olympics: https://support.specialolympics.org/a/donate-one-time-now, or to the ARC of Union County: https://secure.qgiv.com/for/thearcofunioncounty/.

Funeral Eulogy

Thank you everyone for being here this morning to join with me and all the Watson Family in sending my son Peter Damien Watson on his way to a super-spectacular, best-ever party – one in in Heaven that never ends. In fact, Peter is already there even now, celebrating with his Mom, his brother, Mark Thomas, with Memere and Grandpa, Mama Nonie and Popsie and a host of uncles and aunts who had gone before him.

Peter really loved having a party. And he was always eager to plan ahead for the next one – the Next Big Thing. No matter what festive occasion we were planning, Peter would be so excited to discuss the upcoming celebration – and he loved to review the entire plan with us over and over again, in great detail. He would relish each discussion – Just talking about it was so much fun! But then he would always end by asking. “And then? And then?” What was coming next?

Well, on 9 March, Peter went on to his ultimate “Next Big Thing.”

Up until the day of his sudden stroke and emergency hospitalization, Peter was so alert. He was upbeat and excited about our plans to go to Holyoke, Massachusetts, this coming Sunday, for the Big Saint Patrick’s Parade there. Every part of the holiday needed to be discussed. Yes, “Green – Green Saint Patrick’s Day!” There would be “Pot Luck” – a big dinner at his Auntie Pooch’s home. And then “Out to eat” - a special dinner with all the family. Aunkie Nan would wear her white shoes. And there would be breakfast at Mel’s. And Mass at Jericho. And “Hotel - stay the night!” So much fun!

Yes, Peter would enjoy planning for the celebration with us almost as much as actually going there. For Peter, it was always one combined kaleidoscope of excitement – a package deal - remembering the happiness of great times past, the excitement of the present moment and the anticipation of even better things to come. So much happiness; so much joy! – “And then? And then?” Keep the good times rolling! Life for Peter was a series of celebrations.

Conversely, Peter’s physical life was meanwhile a non-stop gauntlet. He was born with a very advanced form of Down Syndrome, characterized by severe physical and mental disabilities. He had a swollen head with dilated veins on his forehead and his scrawny arms and legs were too weak for him to even lift himself. And his tiny little diaper was too big to stay up. So weak and helpless. No one expected him to live very long. But Peter kept smiling through it all. And everybody loved that little guy so much. His three pre-school brothers where his cheering section, along with his Mom and me and just about everyone that Peter ever met.

We were always there by his side throughout a life history that was a medical trail of tears. Open heart surgery for end-stage pulmonary hypertension and heart failure. We were told in the recovery area that all this major surgery had been unsuccessful and that Peter, at age 4, did not have much longer to live. But Peter, “The Comeback Kid,” rallied and went on to live not only for 4 years, but another 45 years!

But there was still much more to come. Peter went through three operations for a broken neck. Long recovery necessitated a metal “halo” of wires, metal struts and nails screwed into his skull, fixing his neck so it could not move for nearly a year. Then there was the craniotomy (open skull surgery) for multiple brain abscesses. And then a collapsed lung. And multiple skin cancers from “Gorlin’s Syndrome.” And malignant, end-stage anorexia.

Through it all, we were always there to cheer him on – all of his family and an ever-expanding fan club. “Yay, Peter!”

Through it all, Peter kept marching on! Always upbeat! Always excited, even by the smallest treat – there was his daily trip to 7/11 for a Coke and chips. And while there, he would be sure to have us pick up a few bananas for his sister Catherine. Then next, there would be a trip for a little snack each day. Peter never met a fast-food drive-through that he did not like – Wendy’s, McDonalds, Arby’s, Burger King, Popeye’s and more. And of course, there were lots of big treats, too. For instance. Easter Sunday at “Big Church” (That’s what Peter called the Sacred Heart Cathedral in Newark). Peter was so excited. He had been recovering from a neurological paralysis that threatened to be permanent, but Peter was determined that he would be able to walk into the cathedral on Easter Sunday, all by himself - “Up the ramp with no walker!” And so he did! Dinner followed with all his family at Casa Vasca in the Iron Bound section of Newark. But for all that, Peter also took great pleasure at going to Mass right here at “Little Church” (Our Lady of Lourdes), where he could bring up the gifts at Mass and everyone here was his friend.

Despite all that he suffered – what would have been for many a trail of tears, Peter blazed a trail of light throughout all his life, and he brightened all of our lives with his resilient sense of joy and excitement – his joie de vivre.

I’ll share a little saying that reflects Peter’s life-lesson for us all:

Yesterday is history.

Tomorrow is a mystery.

Today, alone, reality.

Today is God’s special gift to us.

That’s why it called “The present.”

Please don’t spoil God’s present.

This then is our plea - The next time that the darkness of fear and regret looms over your thoughts, please remember Peter Damien Watson and celebrate God’s special gift of joy in the present moment.

I’ll end by sharing with you a story about the miracle of Blessed Nicholas Konrad. Father Nicholas Konrad was a holy priest who was murdered in Ukraine by Soviet atheists in 1941. As a Ukrainian Catholic priest, he was allowed to have a wife and family. I had the good luck to meet one of Nicholas Konrad’s grandchildren, Dr George Isajiw, though the Catholic Medical Association. And George encouraged me to join with him in praying to Father Konrad for Peter when Peter was dying of severe unexplained anorexia. He would not even swallow. We were feeding him through a gastrostomy tube in his stomach wall. But even that was no longer keeping him alive. Peter was slowly starving to death before our eyes.

Then one day, Peter’s uncle, Father John L Sullivan, was visiting with us from Massachusetts. And we noted that, as it happened, Nicholas Konrad was going to be beatified later that same week. Before dinner, we all said a prayer together to Nicholas Konrad for Peter’s recovery. And we then began eating a dinner of spaghetti and meat balls. Peter, who had been sitting there quietly, looked up all of a sudden and said, “Spaghetti, please.” Leonie looked at me in great surprise and I said, “Let’s get him some spaghetti.” Peter, who had not swallowed anything at all, not even milk or water, for many months, chowed down the whole meal. And then he turned to us and said, “More, Please!” So there was Peter eating a second helping of spaghetti, and Leonie and I were crying tears of joy, and everyone at the table was cheering and clapping. “Yay, Peter! Yay, Peter!”

Ever since then, Peter has certainly had no problem with appetite.

So now you know about the little miracle of Blessed Nicholas Konrad. But the greatest miracle of all for us has been the miracle of joy and excitement that Peter Damien Watson has brought every day into our lives. Oh, how I will miss him here. My best buddy ever.

Strong work, Peter Watson, strong work! Your Daddy – and your family and so many friends are all so very, very proud of you! Give Mom a big hug. And have yourself the best party ever – with Cokes and ice cream cake and cheeseburgers in Paradise - one that never ends! “Fodder said Yes!”

Homily for Peter Damien by Father John McCrone – 13 March 2025

We gather this day in both sorrow and gratitude — sorrow because we will miss Peter deeply, and gratitude because we knew him, loved him, and were loved by him. Though our hearts are heavy, they are also full — full of the laughter he gave us, the memories he left with us, and the joy he carried so naturally into every room he entered. Our first reading from the prophet Isaiah speaks of peace — peace that comes from trust in God, peace rooted in the assurance that our lives are held in God’s hands. “Trust in the Lord forever! For the Lord is an eternal Rock.” How fitting that image is for Peter. His peace came not from having all the answers, but from knowing he was surrounded by love and belonging. He didn’t complicate life — he celebrated it. And through that simplicity, he taught us all something profound about how to live, how to love, and how to trust. And in the Gospel today, we hear Jesus call Simon by a new name: “You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church.” Peter shared that name — and though he didn’t build institutions or write epistles, he built something far greater in the hearts of all who knew him. He was a rock in his own unique way — a steady presence of joy, affection, and pure-hearted welcome. Peter had a way of making everyone feel seen. He’d call out to you with excitement what the next celebration would be. He was, in the truest sense, an evangelist of joy. And for me personally, one of the most moving moments I ever shared with Peter was the day I had the privilege of confirming him. It was a day I will never forget. That moment, that sacrament, was a reflection of something already alive in him — the Holy Spirit had already taken root in his heart long before I placed oil on his forehead. He radiated joy, belonging, and faith without ever trying. That day, I may have administered the sacrament, but it was Peter who gave all of us a lesson in the power of the Spirit. In our second reading today, Saint Peter — the apostle — speaks of “a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ… to an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you.” Isn’t that exactly what we hope for now — that the joy Peter shared here on earth has not ended, but has been fulfilled? Saint Peter goes on to say, “Although you have not seen him you love him… you rejoice with an indescribable and glorious joy.” That is perhaps the most fitting description of Peter’s faith — an indescribable and glorious joy. A joy that wasn’t based on doctrine or debate, but on a deep, instinctive trust in God’s goodness and in the love of those around him

Peter’s life reminds us of something crucial: that holiness isn’t always found in lofty words or grand gestures. Sometimes, it’s in a smile. In a welcome. In a simple, heartfelt “Catherine’s here!” or “Patrick’s here!”

He brought light into so many lives and that light didn’t dim, even though challenges. Peter faced life with Down Syndrome not as a limitation, but as a lens through which he saw beauty most of us miss. He turned ordinary places — Targets, fast-food stops, church choirs — into sacred ground, because wherever Peter was, there was connection, celebration, and joy.

Peter didn’t try to impress anyone — but he impacted everyone. He reminded us that every life has inherent dignity, and every person has a role in God’s story. He was, and will always be, a reflection of what it means to live fully, love freely, and trust deeply. We believe Peter has now entered that strong city Isaiah spoke of — a city where the gates are always open to those who kept the faith. There, Peter is welcomed not only by his beloved mother Leonie and his brother Mark, but by the God he trusted with such joy. And now, it’s up to us to carry that joy forward. To live with the love Peter shared so freely. To greet each other with the same enthusiasm. To keep the music going, the love growing. Because Peter was not just a favorite buddy. He was a teacher of joy, a living witness to the value of every life, and a rock — not just in name, but in spirit. May his joy live on in us. And may we, too, trust in the Lord forever — for the Lord is our eternal Rock.

Catherine's Eulogy

Peter is my older brother. My role model. My mentor.

He was born in a time and place before me. I was not there yet, but I can tell you a bit of the family lore.

The Watsons had moved from the island of Hawaii where Pat and Dan were born, to a landlocked place, where bluegrass was the closest one came to sea water. They called it “Kentucky Island.”

Peter, who was very proud of being from there, always referred to it as “Tucky.” Whenever he heard the word, Kentucky – say if somebody casually mentioned “Kentucky Fried Chicken” – he’d proudly point out “Peter-Tucky!” and one of his 8 professional translators (that is, my mom, my dad, or any of his 6 conscripted siblings) would explain, “He’s telling you he was born in Kentucky.”

Peter was born there, at Ireland Army Hospital, Fort Knox. The hospital is named after Merritte W. Ireland, a US Surgeon General. It’s about as Irish as Kentucky is an island, I guess. But I still think that “Ireland Army” honors Pete well. For, though the guards were stationed at the bullion depository nearby, no pot of gold has ever held more precious treasure than Ireland Army Hospital on the day Peter was born. And nothing pleased Peter more than an army of Irishmen marching. We are all witness today that Peter’s love of a St. Patrick’s Day Parade is literally stronger than death.

So, July 1, 1975, Ireland Army Hospital, Fort Knox, Peter-Tucky Island, USA. That’s where it all began.

This beginning calls to my mind another fictional island, Isla Nublar, the ill-fated island in Jurassic Park. As I have thought of Peter in these last few days, I keep recalling a scene from that film. In the scene, a Jurassic Park scientist named John is explaining to Dr. Ian Malcolm (aka Jeff Goldblum) that the island’s dinosaurs will neeeever get out of hand. They’re all female, so they can’t breed, and it’s just a lovely prehistoric ladies’ tea party that will never go wrong!

“We control their chromosomes,” he says, “it’s really not that difficult…they just require an extra hormone given at the right developmental stage to make them male. We simply deny them that…”

Dr. Jeff Goldblum interjects,

“John, the kind of control you’re attempting is, it’s not possible. Listen, if there’s one thing the history of evolution has taught us, it’s that life will not be contained. Life breaks free, it expands to new territories, and it crashes through barriers, painfully, maybe even dangerously, but uh, well, there it is”

John questions back logically, “You’re implying that a group composed entirely of female animals will breed?”

“No,” Dr. Jeff famously replies, “I’m simply saying that life, uh, finds a way.”

Peter found a way. His Life found a way. His Love found a way. He could not be contained. He expanded, he wove his way into the territory of every heart he encountered like an uncontrollable invasive species of sweetness, surprising and delighting us at every turn with his insuppressible uniqueness. Where we had once perhaps thought that we had answers, knew what to expect, could control outcomes or methods – he taught us time after time that we had better simmer down and learn to adapt to his world. It was like a reverse Jurassic Park. The misguided characters in that film expected an entertaining educational theme park and got a horror show. In Peter Park, we were always being told by some doctor or scientist who knew best to anticipate struggle, pain, fear, death – a kind of nonstop horror. But Peter World turned out to be a theme park of blissful education and entertainment every day of the year for anyone who could drop their program and get on his. And not to worry, Peter would help you do that!

A well-known family example of his stance towards a pupil:

When Peter was very small his highly accomplished and sometimes, perhaps a bit cocky, uncle John L Sullivan was playing a sort of patty cake game with Peter. John would tap the table three times in a rhythm, Buh-de-Bum. Peter followed him, but only tapped twice, Buh-Bum. John repeated his triple tap time and time again, and Peter patiently followed, but never included that third tap. John decided to illustrate both taps to differentiate them for Peter. He began, “Now watch me, Peter: Buh-Bum,” but before he could get to his contrasting Buh-de-Bum, Peter burst out clapping for him. Finally, John L. had gotten it!

This was Peter. Gently waiting for us to catch on. Overjoyed when we got there.

He used the same patient persistence, self-assurance, and ingenuity in his own endeavors, along with a healthy dose of hold-my-beer fortitude and personal athleticism.

When Peter was born, a whopping 12lb 3.5 oz baby boy, only my mother suspected that he might have Down Syndrome. He was almost 3 months old, and had transformed into a worryingly underweight baby, before another doctor finally confirmed my mother’s intuition.

The April before that, my mother had visited Rome on a Holy Year Pilgrimage sponsored by the Archbishop of Louisville. She and pre-natal Peter visited the tomb of St. Peter and the church of San Damiano in Assisi. My mom later wrote, “Special to us meant that he might one day be a Cardinal, a prince of the Church.” They named him Peter Damien. But as he was soon to show us all, Peter’s special was to his own beat. He was a Buh-Bum Prince, not a Buh-de-Bum one.

By the time I was born, Peter was 4 years old. A month before my arrival, he underwent surgery to repair a hole in his heart. Doctors reported to my parents that the procedure was unsuccessful, and Peter would not survive. During the rest of that year, while my mother attended to newborn me, Peter perfected his “flip up” a unique procedure of his own, a variation on a pull-up that he invented to navigate stairs. He would put his head and chest on the stair above him, then flop his legs up with his torso strength until his whole body lay on the destination step. When he got to the top step, he would pull himself into standing position, using the stair post. By this method he could successfully, if not rapidly, ascend the stairs several times a day.

When he was 8 and I was 4, we were both finally potty trained and taking swimming lessons. Peter began to learn colors. We had continued to hit our milestones in tandem, though his were achieved with at least twice the effort, and infinitely more verve and style.

Eventually, I passed him in various capacities, becoming more dexterous with a fork than he ever managed to be, evolving a fat vocabulary that maybe made me seem smarter. But Peter continued to teach me, not only about character and ethics, but about the English language and category definitions. One instance I’ll give is “stick.” Before Peter’s tutelage, I had a notion of what stick means. I probably felt I had a pretty good handle on it, even. But Peter expanded my mind. He made me understand that sticks include so many things you’d be unlikely to ask a dog to fetch: toilet plungers, toy swords, spatulas, back scratchers, rulers, retractable classroom pointers. He also taught me that sticks are fabulous. I had taken them quite for granted, but he did not. He understood a highly complex Thomistic stick hierarchy that I never matched him for, any more than he ever matched me for fork-wielding.

To this day, I marvel at the precision and rigor of his standards, his aesthetic exactitude. Peter knew which sticks were slay and which were nay for every hour and occasion. He had an Imelda Marcos level collection and would sometimes have to stop in the middle of the day to re-accessorize for the moment. I am also duly impressed by his independence. Peter’s comprehension of the beauty and intricacy of sticks was all his own. He didn’t need anyone to teach him; he wasn’t inspired by someone else’s interpretation or shine; he didn’t feel bothered or weird for being alone on the heights of stick-appreciation. He just knew. He knew what he liked, he knew what he wanted, he loved what he loved, and he did it purely. His artistic autonomy reminds me of Frank Zappa, who once said, “I don’t have time to go around explaining myself. You either get it, or you don’t.”

There are differences though, between these auteurs, Zappa and Watson. Because Peter did have time. And he did let you in on his whys and wherefores, or at least on his ways, regarding sticks and so many other mysteries of his world. He just didn’t do it primarily with words.

I’m writing this eulogy at the last possible minute. Because I’m always late. And because I didn’t know what to say. There are no words, and there are too many stories, and there is just no pithy way to capture the wild wonder of Peter. I’m supposed to be at the church delivering this in 15 minutes. So lucky for you, I’ll have to wrap it up.

I am writing myself a note that I want to tell you about our dog Lucky and how Peter befriended fears, about his techniques for managing rejection and differences with others. About “I try” and about “Almost,” and how he coped with setbacks and disappointments. I want to tell you how creatively he cursed.

I want to go on and on for the rest of my life about all I’ve learned from my long, loving, utterly not-merit-based apprenticeship with the holiest, wisest person I’ve ever known or known about, Peter Damian Nicholas Conrad Watson. His fortitude, integrity and ingenuity; his persistence, self-assuredness, and aesthetic-precision; his thorough, particular humanity, and his centered, grounded completeness. I wish I were able to manage time as majestically as he did. I’m genuinely pissed, if I’m honest, that I can’t do better than this. But I will stop here, with these jottings on what to share with you in July at his 50th birthday bash. These preliminary notes on what to recall and proclaim for the rest of my life, now that my sensei is gone and I have to do my martial-arts-of-life to the best of my ability “in-his-style,” (which I hope I’ve successfully convinced you is inimitable), till I see him again where he is.

It wasn’t until Peter was well past forty that he finally got his honorary professorship at Georgetown Medical (via a medal, which they gave him when he crashed the class of ’68 reunion by attending with our doctor-y Mom and Dad who met there, and which he kept happily in the same spot as his Special Olympics bowling trophies.) But I want to declare, I want you to know, that despite the late arrival of official recognition of his scholarly activities, all Pete’s life he was patiently teaching remedial 101 to those of us who weren’t yet developed to his level, helping us to overcome our delays and improve our grasp on the fundamentals of life.

One last tale. From my mother’s journals. When Peter was in his 2nd year, my parents welcomed a healthy baby brother for him, Mark Thomas. But tragedy followed. Their beautiful, healthy boy died without warning in the night, a Sudden Infant Death. Not a month later, Peter went into respiratory arrest and went to the hospital. My mother writes heartbreakingly, “My arms ached for my baby. I felt that God was telling me I had tried to do too much and failed…”

[When Peter was so sick, so soon after] she goes on, “My reaction was, ‘Lord, I don’t have the strength to fight for his life.’ Rich, on the other hand, prayed, ‘Lord, you took Mark from us. I won’t let you take Peter.’ He would rock with him in the rocking chair and sing [Englebert Humperdink’s] ‘I’m gonna hold you till I die. Till we both break down and cry. Till the fear in me subsides.’ And Peter survived that bout, and many subsequent bouts, of pneumonia as well as a variety of other life-threatening conditions- And he is still with us, bringing us joy every day.”

I love what Mom wrote. She vowed to take care of her son Peter until he died. She died before him, but she kept her promise. Because she was right there with us waiting to catch him, when we could no longer hold him here. Her arms are holding him now, and they are both in the even surer arms of God. As are we all. My dad, too, is keeping his promise. He holds Peter in his heart and will do so till he dies. Peter and my mom are with us, along with our grandparents, our uncles Rick and Tom, and all our beloved cloud of witnesses. Bringing us joy every day. And we are with them, holding them till we die and greet them again.