There are moments seared in my memory. The Strawberry Shortcake pink sweat suit wrapped in a green Marshall Fields box with a white bow. He carried it home on the train and I ran to him as he walked toward our house. I knew that box and I knew it was special. If you grew up in Chicago in the 1980’s you know exactly what I am talking about. I was overjoyed at the attention he was paying to me on my birthday. As one of seven children that attention was seismic.
Then, there was the way he sat on his knees watching football and eating Jay’s potato chips out of a metal tin with a Stroh’s beer. This was his default most weeknights. He adored sports. Especially Notre Dame Football, his alma mater.
I’ll never forget his inappropriate, verbally “loud”, and some could argue, absurd sideline coaching when I was one of two girls on the flag football team. He would yell and swear and I would shrink. Today that memory cracks me up. Mostly because I am the crazy parent unable to contain herself on the sidelines at Lucy’s soccer games and also because back then parents had a freedom forbidden today. (it’s probably for the best.)
There are other less impressive, but very real memories. Like most of us, my dad was not perfect. There were some very hard times, but honestly, I had nothing but a good relationship with my father. Love it or hate it, my dad gave me character no one could replicate if they tried. I am better for it. I made peace with all of it long before his passing. But even the best “type A” planners can never proactively mitigate the impacts of losing a father. There is no strategy for the death of a parent. At 50, raising a teenager, managing a wheelchair life and having aging parents, is so f’n hard. You just can’t even make sense of this sort of chaos. So, I won’t. IYKYK.
Like most “someone has died” phone calls - mine came early on the morning of November 9, 2026. “Meg, Dad died”, my sister Aimee said. I was shocked but not shocked. I was sad but couldn’t process. We had collectively as a sibling group, put my dad in a care facility over the summer. It was really hard. After a lot of back-n-forth we knew it was best even if we couldn’t make sense of it. We could no longer put off the inevitable and we could no longer take care of him and his increasing health care needs. It hurt. Nothing could’ve prepared us for the instantaneous turn of events and incoming decisions seven siblings had to navigate. We all had moments I imagine we are not proud of, but we all had a healthy amount of grace for each other knowing we were in unchartered territory.
July morphed into August and dad managed his new life with courage. He didn’t love it, but we knew he had resigned himself to this new reality. He knew we could no longer take care of him. His COPD after years of smoking was shutting down his organs. He was 84 years old. The fall brought new realities, and we wondered if dad would spend another month at the facility or another ten years. His days moved between the good and the bad, the healthy and the chronically ill. He turned 85 on November 4th.
When I was home in July, I made sure to spend time with my dad, and I knew that when I said goodbye it might be the last time. I even talked about it with my siblings. When my dad made it to October, I told Rob we needed to be in Chicago for Thanksgiving. I wanted to spend time with my family and my dad. I missed him by three weeks.
There is relief in my grief. Two things can be true at the same time.
My dad did not suffer in his last days. If we have a lingering thought it’s that no one was holding his hand as he crossed over, but we also know he passed peacefully in his sleep. It is really the best outcome. So yes, I am sad, but I’m also relieved. I’m grateful too. Five of my siblings carried the weight of caregiving these last four months. They travelled more than an hour each way to visit him regularly. they ordered him food and brought him care and love on a daily basis. They ran the hard yards day after day and I could not be more grateful for the love they acted on. Thank you.
Of all the things I knew most deeply in my soul, it is that my parents loved us. My dad loved all of us unconditionally. He was so proud of us. My parents never let us lose sight of that love, and it served the seven Baldino’s well. That doesn’t mean it was perfect. In fact, a lot of it wasn’t. But, in the good we thrived, we rose and we probably exceeded most people’s expectations. That is love in its purest form. That is love we now give to our own spouses and children. That is love no one can take from us because love never ends. Love is patient, love is kind, and love never ends. Love you dad. (p.s. ND won on Saturday!)