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Peter Avakian

Peter Avakian of Pike Creek, Delaware died in the early hours of March 13, 2019, after a long illness.

Peter was born May 15, 1933 in Tabriz, Iran, to Paul (Boghos) Avakian and Sonia Lifshitz Avakian. His family was cultured and prominent with deep roots in Armenia and Russia. After his father’s early death, Peter came to America with his family in 1946. He grew up in Englewood, NJ and attended college at the University of Rochester (B.S., 1955) and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (Ph.D., 1960).

Peter married his beloved wife, Barbara Loveland Avakian, in 1957. They had two daughters, Helen and Lucille. Peter began working for DuPont as a research physicist in 1961. He once surprised Barbara with a horse on her birthday; forty years later he would surprise his second wife with a kitten. Peter, Barbara and their children cherished their time together, Barbara’s Oriental rug business (an Avakian family tradition), and activities with the Unitarian church including the Institute on Religion in an Age of Science at Star Island. They would become founding members of the Unitarian Universalist Society of Mill Creek. Peter and his family traveled to Germany, Iran, India, the former Soviet Union, and other countries. In Armenia, he was pleased to find that he was no longer short.

All these pursuits outside of work should not miss the fact that Peter was a workaholic who virtually lived at DuPont, driving home at some very odd hours. Though he felt greatly honored by the friendship of black hole physicist and lifelong Unitarian John Wheeler, Peter’s love of physics did not include a paper on how to bend time. The discoveries he would publish were in his work on polymer physics and fiber optics, including papers co-authored with the late Howard Starkweather and Richard Merrifield.

Barbara died in 2000. When he retired from DuPont in 2002, Peter began a new life with marriage to long-time family friend Tatiana (Bresinsky). He educated himself in detail about aspects of science and world history with which he was previously unfamiliar. He tutored high school students, sold nutritional products out of his home, and welcomed a granddaughter in 2008.

Peter survived a ruptured brain aneurysm in 2015 to spend the next four years accompanying his wife on research trips to New York City, Philadelphia and Syracuse; attending classes at the Osher Institute for Lifelong Learning; having weekly lunches with his daughter Lucille and his granddaughter Celeste; using the gym at Performance Physical Therapy; enjoying daily walks with his wife and his dog Clyde; doing hours of yard work; paying his respects to his famous cousin George Avakian, on George’s death; and following politics, casting his final vote for the Democratic candidates in the 2018 midterm election. In summer 2018, Peter traveled to New York State to surprise his daughter Helen and former son-in-law Terry Champlin as they gave a concert—an occasion he treasured. Stephen Hawking’s death exactly a year before his own caused him the most sentiment his wife ever saw. He took his walks until the last few months of his life. In keeping with Peter’s love of animals, his seventeen-year-old cat Zeno—the marital birthday kitten—was at his side together with his wife when Peter died, at home and in his sleep. He enjoyed music, learning, good food, and humor to the end. Peter spoke English, Russian, Armenian, Farsi and German and told bad jokes in all of them.

He was a member of the Brain Aneurysm Support Group at Christiana Care in Newark, whose meetings he rarely missed. His family wish to thank Dr. Barbara Albani and the rest of the Neurointerventional Department at Christiana Care, plus his other doctors and many supportive nurses, therapists and other staff, for giving him four final years of love with his family.

Peter is survived by his wife Tatiana Avakian of Pike Creek; his sister Mary Freericks of Santa Barbara, California; his daughters Helen Avakian of Madison, Wisconsin and Lucille Avakian Karnik of Newark; his granddaughter Celeste Karnik, niece Rebecca Danenberg, and nephews Darius and Paul Avakian and Charles and James Freericks; his son-in-law Rahul Karnik and Helen’s partner David Irwin; and his pets. His family also wish to recognize his devoted friends Gerard D. Moeller of Middleton, Dr. Joseph Ternes of Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania, and Dr. William Silver of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Donations may be made to the Unitarian Universalist Society of Mill Creek at 579 Polly Drummond Hill Rd, Newark, DE 19711. A celebration of Peter’s life will be held at 3 p.m. on Sunday, March 24th at the Unitarian Universalist Society of Mill Creek.

 

Funeral Services

Donations may be made to the Unitarian Universalist Society of Mill Creek at 579 Polly Drummond Hill Rd, Newark, DE 19711. A celebration of Peter’s life will be held at 3 p.m. on Sunday, March 24th at the Unitarian Universalist Society of Mill Creek.

 

 

Condolences

    Carolyn Uhlig writes,
    Dear Helen and Lucille, I'm sorry to read of Peter's passing. You have my heartfelt sympathy. Reiner and Peter had many interesting adventures. One where they were snowed in for a couple of days on the NJ turnpike when they closed the highway due to a blizzard. Unfortunately I won't be able to attend his celebration of life on March 24th. You will be in my thoughts and prayers.
    03/17/2019 11:14 am
    Liz Williams lit a candle and writes,
    Our very best wishes from Glastonbury. What a wonderful life. x
    03/17/2019 02:34 pm
    RICHARD JAMIESON lit a candle and writes,
    I have known Peter since High School. We were closely associated with one another until he moved to Delaware and I moved to CT. I later moved back to NJ, when his family visited us, and we both saw one another at a high school reunion, then we slowly drifted apart. I am sorry that we did not connect closely again. Richard Jamieson
    03/18/2019 08:59 pm
    Jennifer Faison lit a candle and writes,
    Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there; I do not sleep I am thousand winds that blow I am diamond blunts on snow I am the sunlight on ripened grain I am the gentle Autumn's rain Do not stand at my grave and mourn I am the few flecked Where tranquil oceans meet the land I am the footprints in the sand to guide you through the heavy clay I am still here... I'll always stay When you wake up in the morning hush I am drifting of quiet birds I'm circled flight I am the stars that shine at night Do not stand at my grave and say I am not there I did not due By Conor O'Brien with love to you and the family, Jennifer Faison
    03/19/2019 07:27 pm
    Kelli Brothers lit a candle and writes,
    I’m a clerk at Walgreens in Pike Creek, and I have had the pleasure of knowing Peter for the past two years that I have worked here. Peter was such a beautiful, kind soul- he truly brought a smile to my face every time he came in, and I am happy that I got to see him recently as I took a purchase out to the car he was in. My prayers and condolences go out to all of his family, friends, and loved ones- until we meet again, Peter.
    03/19/2019 09:44 pm
    David Atadan lit a candle and writes,
    Helen and Lucille, I am sorry to hear of your loss. My dad passed away a few months ago. Maybe they will get together, along with Mr. Starkweather, who lived in back of us, and do some lab experiments in heaven, to inspire some living DuPonter (and Dow) to event something great, like they did themselves while living. Prayers for your family from Jannie and me. David
    03/24/2019 08:23 am
    David Silberman writes,
    So sorry for your loss. My prayers for your family.
    03/24/2019 11:04 am
    Abby Fuller and Neil Wollman lit a candle and writes,
    What a perfect obituary for a precious man who lived a wonderful and full life. We'll always remember, and cherish, seeing Peter on Star Island.
    03/24/2019 12:31 pm
    neil wollman writes,
    Tanya, here is the piece my wife Abby wrote after the death of our daughter Scout. It has been helpful in grieving--for you or any family members if might be helpful to you or them. ©2009 Cruse Bereavement Care DOI: ARTICLES Bereavement Care The unexpected gifts of loss Abigail A Fuller Former Associate professor of sociology and social work Director, Peace Studies Program Manchester University, North Manchester, USA aafuller12 [email protected] I lost my eight-year-old daughter Scout to cancer on 7 July 2007. The months that followed have been by far the most painful of my entire life. I don’t know that there is anything worse than losing a child. At first, I didn’t want to live – and this is typical of parents who lose a child. In fact, many plan their suicides. For months I woke up every day wishing that the world would disappear. I tell you this not to elicit your sympathy, but so you will know that it was from the depths of this kind of pain that came the unexpected gifts I will be describing here. I had thought that, if Scout died, I would not be able to go on. And yet here I am. And not only am I here, but I have learned more in these past nine months than I ever thought possible. I feel as if I have undergone the most astonishingly rapid spiritual growth spurt of my life – a sort of spiritual boot camp, if you will. It’s tough going, but it makes for fast changes. What have I learned? Our culture deals badly with death We ignore death, deny it, and avoid it as much as possible. This is manifested in so many ways: our culture’s idealisation of youth and looking young and feeling young (instead of valuing the wisdom that comes with age); the measures to which we go to keep people alive at the very end of their lives; the way we consign dying and death to hospitals and funeral parlours, instead of allowing these very natural and inevitable things to happen at home. Why does this matter, our culture’s denial of death? Because when death comes – and it always does – we are shocked, frightened, unprepared. We do not know how to sit with someone as they die, comforting them and supporting them as they make the sacred journey to the other side. A dead body seems creepy to us because we have never touched one before. We push aside grief and try to ‘move on’ because our sadness is uncomfortable to those around us, and to ourselves. We do not know what to say when someone loses a friend or family member, and so too often we say nothing and stay away. Compare our culture with this example. ‘Sobanfu Some is an African healer and lecturer. She describes the way grief is regarded in her culture. In her village, at any given time there is a grief ritual taking place. Anyone who is grieving is welcome to come, to cry, and to feel together in a community of others as a simple matter of course. The notion of avoiding this process and these feelings is as illogical to them as avoiding a meal when feeling hungry. Holding on to grief is likened to holding on to a toxic substance. It is only through the acknowledgment and expression of the grief that the health of the organism is restored.’ (Brams-Prudeaux, 2005) And our fear of death is really an aspect of a larger concern: our fear of loss. Think about this: all relationships end. All relationships end. I read those words recently and was struck by the paradox that, while this is so obviously true, we almost never pay attention to it. It is too frightening, I think, to live daily with this realisation. In a strange way, embracing the inevitability of loss has given me comfort: what happened to Scout and to me is not out of the order of things; it is part of the order of things. As my husband said: ‘Eventually, if she grew up she’d have to say goodbye to us when we died. She just happened to go first.’ I have been reading a lot of Buddhist philosophy these past months. A central precept of Buddhism is that the source of human suffering is an unwillingness to accept loss. But loss is a part of life, because change is a part of life. So, if I face my mortality head-on, the next question becomes: what am I going to do with this life that I do have? The moment we fully acknowledge the inevitability of death is the moment we fully feel the preciousness of life, because it doesn’t last. So life and death are parts of a whole – the one cannot exist without the other. Which brings me to the next lesson I’ve learned. Happiness is over-rated I do not think the point of life is to be happy. I think the point of being here on earth is to grow as human beings – to gain a deeper understanding of and appreciation for all that is. And guess what: we don’t grow when we are comfortable. It is when we are challenged, when we suffer, when we are uncomfortable, that we grow the most. Now, you might argue that, as we grow as human beings, we in fact become happier – yes, but this is happiness in the truest sense of the word: not fun, ha-ha, laughing at jokes happiness, but a kind of hardearned happiness that comes from experiencing both pain and joy, both life and death. In my senior year in college I took a course on Literature of the Holocaust and, toward the end of the semester, the professor invited this woman to speak to the class. She had lived through unimaginable horror, and in spite of that −no, because of that −she had the most serene, genuine, warm presence I have ever witnessed in a person. Let go of what I cannot control (and cherish what I have) This lesson was a gift that first came when Scout was diagnosed with cancer in January 2007. During those first days, as I sat crying in her hospital room, I realised: ‘I cannot control the outcome of this. But what I can do is love her with every ounce of my being for as long as she is here.’ And I did that. I was also determined not to allow the terror of losing her to distract me from the enormous gift of having her there right then. In fact, the possibility that I could lose her gave me the gift of a deep, attentive love with her. I remember her asking me last spring: ‘Mom, why are you kissing me so much?’ Letting go what we cannot control means also letting go of the fantasy that somehow, if we are good, if we are kind, if we believe in God, if we make the right choices, then nothing bad will happen to us. When Scout died, I wondered: ‘Why her? Why not some kid who was a bully, who didn’t have a happy life, who was dumb, whose parents didn’t care about them?’ I realised after a time that the answer to ‘Why me?’ is ‘Why not me?’ Nothing makes me or my family immune from death or illness or injury. (And, of course, the life of a kid who is a bully or not so smart or whose parents don’t care about him is just as precious as my daughter’s life.) But I suffered a loss of innocence: I realised I am not immune from tragedy. No, we cannot control what happens to us but we can make the best of what we have been given. What really matters in life is not what happens to you, it is what you do with it. When your heart breaks, it breaks open I think of it this way: each of us builds a hard shell around our heart to protect ourselves from deep pain. We can’t help it, because we are human. But this same shell also keeps us away from feelings of deep joy and deep love and of peace, of oneness with the universe. So, since my heart was broken from losing Scout, I have experienced not only the greatest pain of my life but also the greatest love and gratitude I have ever known. I find I am less interested in judging people, less willing to get in the middle of conflicts, I spend less time speculating about people’s motives, and am more aware of and appreciative of the good qualities in people. I spend more time amazed at and grateful for what life has brought me – especially Scout. What a miracle that she was here, that for eight perfect years I got to be her mom. In my extended family there has been an astonishing change since Scoutie died. I have four sisters, and my mother and father are still around. We have always been close, but with conflict. But since July, each and every one of my sisters and both my parents have shown an enormous generosity of spirit, not only toward me, but toward each other. Scout’s death changed my parents’ relationship, my relationship with my husband, and all our lives. Love is the strongest force in the universe A month or so after Scout died, my friend Marcie asked: ‘You are going through such an extraordinary time. What are you learning?’ I told her that I did not know: I was too deep in grief to see that yet. Later that night I was lying in bed and suddenly the answer to her question came to me – and it was so simple that I had almost missed it. The big lesson in all this, in Scout’s illness and our struggle to get her cured and our deep sadness on losing her – the overarching theme in all of this is not loss, or cancer, or how unfair the world is, but love. As I lay there, I found myself actually grinning. Our love for Scout, Scout’s love for us, the outpouring of love that my family received from friends and colleagues and neighbors – everything else pales in comparison with that love. Most importantly, I realised when I lost Scout that nothing, but nothing could take away my love for her, and so we would always be connected. Cancer could take away her body, but it could not touch my love. Love can outlast time, distance, and even death. It is, indeed, the strongest force in the universe. A few months ago, while I was swimming laps, I thought to myself: ‘My life is over.’ Then the universe spoke to me – or maybe it was God, depending on your beliefs – and said gently but firmly: ‘No, it’s not over; it’s just different.’ I can’t have Scout back – and so the important question is: ‘What do I do now with what I have? Where do I go from here?’ I have these unexpected gifts to help me along the way, and they are gifts from Scout. 
    03/24/2019 12:46 pm
    Laura C Ivansons writes,
    Although not known to me personally, Mr. Avakian was the beloved father of my wonderful friend Lucille. Over the past three years my family and I have enjoyed getting to know Mr. Avakian through stories from Lucille and Celeste. Even though he is no longer here, Mr. Avakian achievements and stories will live on in his daughters and grand-daughter. I look forward to many more years of remembering his life and accomplishments through Lucille. What we have once enjoyed we can never lose; all that we deeply love becomes a part of us. – Helen Keller
    03/24/2019 01:00 pm
    IRAS Executive Committee writes,
    Condolences from the Executive Committee of the Institute on Religion in an Age of Science.
    03/31/2019 02:49 pm
    Judy Schalick lit a candle and writes,
    Peter charmed my best friend at college, Barbara Loveland, and charmed me and my husband-to-be too while we shared time in and around Cambridge in the early 1950s. When they married and had children, we shared jokes at college reunions. Peter was a gifted raconteur and Barbara kept us up to date with music and Helen and Lucille’s accomplishments and aspirations. They had wonderfully inquisitive minds and loving hearts and are both missed.
    04/24/2019 09:58 am
    Timothy Merritt lit a candle and writes,
    I remember Peter. It was nice to have someone truly intelligent to talk to, and discuss some of the harder experiences in life, and in the connections in the past.
    08/30/2022 10:32 pm

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