Published in the Feb. 5, 2014 issue of Morgan Hill Life
By Robert Airoldi
Robert Airoldi
In my 25-year journalism career, I’ve covered my share of fatal plane, train and vehicle accidents, fires, murders, assaults and other stories that were tough to write. But those were nothing compared to what you’re about to read.This is the hardest column I’ve ever penned. My mother Barbara Airoldi passed away Jan. 18 at the age of 76.
We were blessed with good fortune in that a brother and sister were able to fly in from out of state in time for all of us to gather in her room as she slowly passed that Saturday morning. We hugged each other, cried and told stories, some sad, some funny. And if it wasn’t for one of those funny stories, neither I nor my two brothers and sister would be here. Neither would my mom’s six grandchildren.
You see, my parents, George and Barbara, married in 1958. Eight months later I was born. But if it wasn’t for a San Francisco police officer in 1957, that marriage may have never taken place.
My dad is never late, especially to a 49er game. He once left me because I was 5 minutes late. Lesson learned. So, that day he was taking Barbara on a date to see the 49ers play the Chicago Bears at Kezar Stadium, where five years later he began taking me.
But Barbara couldn’t leave right away, and they were running behind. As they were walking toward Kezar Stadium, a car full of Barbara’s high school friends saw her and stopped and started talking. But George, knowing they were going to be late if they didn’t hurry, grabbed her by the arm, forcing her to continue toward the stadium.
Photo courtesy George Airoldi
Barbara Airoldi in the emergency room at Good Samaritan Hospital in San Jose.
That’s when the officer saw them, stopped and asked Barbara if everything was OK. My dad told him, of course, they were just running late and if they didn’t get to the game in time, he was never going to see this woman again. So the cop told them, “Get in.” He dropped them at the gate, and they got into their seats just as the national anthem was being played. They married a year later, and my dad told that story every chance he could. So, if it hadn’t been for that officer, who knows how different life would be?
Who was that 21-year-old nursing school student who, along with my dad, would go on to raise four children? She was a mother, a Catholic, a true friend and a nurse.
I got to see it all. She doted on us, but was tough. She brought us to Mass on Sundays, but was open to other ways of thinking. She was loyal, but would set you straight if need be. She worked as an emergency room/trauma nurse at Good Samaritan in San Jose for most of her career and she was the go-to person in the neighborhood when someone was hurt.
As a freshman in high school, I hurt my arm in PE, but the nurse sent me back to class. Eventually, I called mom who came to the school, realized my arm was broken, read the nurse the riot act, then took me to the hospital. She would do anything to protect her children and keep them safe.
The past several weeks have been the most difficult of my life, but I know she would want us all to continue to live and love. To enjoy each other and life. To not hold back. To strive to be the best. She was extremely proud of her children and grandchildren, and reveled in hearing about our latest accomplishments. She enjoyed reading Morgan Hill Life and talking with me about the news business, just as she enjoyed talking with my brothers and sister about their lives.
To those of you who have offered condolences via text, Facebook, e-mail, phone and in person, know this: your kinds words are a comfort in this time of darkness. They shine a light in my heart that makes me smile when smiling isn’t easy. I’m proud and thankful to have such a loving and caring family, and great friends.
I love you mom.
