tupaview: Blessings have many different faces
Mike Tupa’s “Uncle” Mark
By Mike Tupa
February 5, 2025
BARTLESVILLE AREA SPORTS REPORT
You never knew Mark.
Your life is therefore infinitely poorer.
Mark — who I called uncle even though I was five years older — first graced this earth in 1961.
There was one unwelcome addendum — Mark faced the future with Down syndrome.
It would be a relatively short life — only 29 years.
But Mark possessed an inner sunshine, an intelligence that spilled over the would-be limitations of his developmental challenges, an acute awareness of not only the people around him but also their personalities, moods and feelings. Yes, his words came out garbled. But his sentences were grammatically correct and appropriate to whatever conversation ensued.
As I look back now, I really can’t explain how Mark was handicapped. My mind knows he was — my heart and observation said otherwise.
I often think of Mark.
During my college years, I lived with my mom and sister in a small apartment located across the street from our grandparents’ and Mark’s home. We spent many, many hours in their house.
I wish I would have had one more driveway shoot around with my Uncle Mark. That regret has haunted me for 45 years. It will follow me to my grave.
Mark was only 29 when he died of an epileptic seizure. I didn’t even make it to his funeral.
Mark didn’t do any of the things usually linked to a memorable life. He never served in the military, never went to college, never played on a sports team, never made his mark in the workforce, never wrote a book, never made a speech and never went trekking.
Mark never even left home.
How does one measure value on a human life? Is the relative importance of individuals based exponentially on widespread fame, expansive intelligence, marketable talent, great power, or gold?
Or is worth based on the level of life-enriching impact of a person in their own small sphere of family, friends and strangers? Is that each circle of love is a ripple that connects to other ripples to create an ocean of humanity?
Mark was born with Down syndrome. My grandmother was 48 when she bore him, my grandfather about the same age as her. Certainly there must have been discussions between my grandparents and some of their children and other loved ones about what would be best for Mark and for his elderly parents. Perhaps there was even discussion about some kind of institutionalism, whether limited or more extensive. I can only surmise. I was just five years old and not aware of such things.
Whether or not such conversations took place, my grandparents decided to raise Mark at home, which then was in Southern California. My childhood memories of interacting with Mark are scattered — mainly because we lived elsewhere during most of his growing up years. I understood he was different from other kids. But — other than not being sure about how to communicate — I don’t recall feeling uncomfortable around Mark. He was a happy little guy and always aware of the people and experiences around him.
His heart was good. I recall one Mother’s Day when at our church they gave out plants to the women. My sister and I planted ours in a little dirt patch near our front door. Mark and our grandparents happened to be visiting that week. Somehow he got ahold of some bleach or something and watered the plant — much to its demise. But we knew his intention had been good. He wanted to make it grow. He wanted the world around him to be a lush, happy place and the people around him to be happy.
Mark provided an example to all of us of unbridled, child-like love untainted by a skeptical and unkind worldly influences to which too many children are exposed at an early age.
My memories of Mark have been unlocked by a horrifying set of numbers I recently read. It seems that in one European nation almost 100 percent of the babies diagnosed with Down syndrome are aborted. Shockingly, the number could be high as 67 percent in the United States.
Many people with Down syndrome are capable of wonderful development mentally and emotionally — it just takes them a little longer than most of us. Meanwhile they can enrich those around them with their pure love, their fierce determination to expand their capabilities, their humility, their loyalty, their dependence mingled with self-pride, their gentle companionship, their enjoyment of life.
To this day I cannot explain how Mark was handicapped beyond some physical challenges in walking (although he could walk wherever he needed to go), and his inability to speak clearly (his words came out a bit garbled, but he spoke in complete sentences and often teased my sister and others; understanding his speech was an acquired art that didn’t take long to master).
Did Mark know he was different in some of his cognitive or communicative skills than most those around him? I think he did. But he had the courage to face the world bravely and on equal terms. I recall sitting next to him in church meetings during hymn singing and he raised his voice as much as anybody’s. He couldn’t articulate the words, but his spirit lifted me.
As I mentioned, I didn’t live around Mark a good portion of his life — with the exception of my college years. My mom, sister and I lived in a small apartment across the street from our grandparents’ house. It was literally like a second home to us.
I spent a good amount of time around Mark — but not as much as I could — or should — have.
I became incredibly busy, attending college full-time, working full-time at night, heavily invested in church work and dated a few girls. One day, grandma told me she had asked grandpa to nail a basketball standard on the front of their garage so that Mark and I could go out and shoot now and then.
As I write about this I am ashamed to confess I took advantage of that opportunity only once or twice, I believe. In the years since I’ve regretted more than I can express the thought of Mark sitting at home, looking out the big side window over at our place and yearning for me to come over and shoot some hoops with him. I think of the burden of loneliness and disappointment I added to his life in those years and how I wish I would have one more day on the driveway with him.
No one was more excited when I joined the U.S. Marine Corps than Mark. I recall sending him a decorative T-shirt from one of my bases and how proudly he sported it. Around this time he also learned how to read and understand political editorials in the newspaper and even showed a skill for drawing editorial cartoons and other pictures.
Just after he turned 22, my grandmother died of cancer. Somehow Mark dealt with that, even losing one of the two people he depended on most in this world for his emotional support. He and grandpa carried on for the next few years, treasuring each other’s company. Had Mark not been there, grandpa’s life would have been infinitely more lonely, more desolate.
At the same time, Mark learned how to fulfill several church duties, including attending temple services with grandpa.
When my mom — to whom Mark had been greatly attached — passed away in the summer of 1990, he took it hard. Just three months later, he also departed this earth. I was working out of state when Mark died suddenly and didn’t make it home for the service.
That was 35 years ago.
All that remains is me — trying to live out the rest of my life in some form of usefulness to God, others and myself. I think often about Mark and miss him. I cannot imagine how much less happy our lives would have been if not for him.
Never take for granted a chance to shoot hoops or have a game of catch with a loved one. Those memories will be worth gold long after other pleasures have dimmed.
Mike Tupa and his “Uncle” Mark.
Mike Tupa and his “Uncle” Mark”.
Mike Tupa, his “Uncle” Mark and sister Pam.