Dean A. Bauer

Humanity became a bit heavier when Dean Allen Bauer a longtime Chicagoland optometrist passed away at the age of 66. A distinguished doctor, father, brother, and son — and a connoisseur of all the finer things life had to offer — Dean was the foundation for so many. He filled every room he walked into — with his laugh, his opinions, his stories, his love — and it's impossible to imagine those rooms without him in them now. Losing him felt as if the ground gave out from underneath us and we are still trying to find the words for a loss this big.

Born in Bay City, Michigan, Dean spent his childhood in the tiny town of Sebewaing — a Michigander with his eyes fixed on bigger places. He was the older of two brothers, and some of his fondest early memories were summers spent helping on his aunt and uncle's farm, playing every sport he could get his hands on, though baseball was always his one true passion. He and his brother, Dan, spent countless childhood evenings hosting wiffle ball games in the backyard, cooling off in the pool afterward — the kind of ordinary, perfect summer days that stay with you forever.

That small-town kid never lost sight of the bigger places he was reaching for. Dean made his way to Chicago for optometry school and stayed in and around the city for the rest of his life — a city mouse born in a country town who finally found his home. Working as a bartender while in school, he made lifelong friends and learned to tell a good story — a skill he carried with him for the rest of his life.

Dean practiced optometry for nearly 40 years, including more than 31 at Kirk Eye Center. He joined Midwest Eye just six weeks after it opened its doors, becoming foundational to the practice’s identity. He cared for thousands of patients over his career with a level of dedication his colleagues still marvel at — he rarely took time off, because the work never felt like a job to him. Known among his colleagues as something of a "keratoconus wizard," he had a gift for fitting specialty contact lenses for patients with complex vision problems others couldn't solve, giving people not just clearer sight but a better quality of life. His generosity reached well beyond home, too: he took part in two cataract mission trips to Piura, Peru, providing postoperative care to patients who otherwise couldn't have afforded sight-restoring surgery.

His patients felt it, too. Time and again, they described him as thorough, patient, and easy to talk to — someone who took the time to truly explain what was happening with their eyes and their health, and who made them feel cared for rather than rushed through an appointment.

To his colleagues, Dean wasn't just a respected optometrist — he was a treasured friend, always ready with a story about the latest recipe he'd perfected or the newest restaurant he'd discovered (many of them lived vicariously through his culinary adventures). One friend joked that Dean was the practice's own James Beard, a culinary savant who seemed to have dined at every notable restaurant in Chicago, and that in another life he might have made a fine Michelin-rated chef himself — grilling and smoking were his specialties; baking, notably, was not. One memorable Thanksgiving, he proudly served a turducken — turkey, duck, and chicken all roasted together — a meal that summed him up perfectly: creative, enthusiastic, and just a little extra. He once said that after a full day of caring for patients, he never felt tired — he felt energized. That passion was obvious to everyone who knew him, from his patients to his colleagues to his sons.

Dean was a full-throated showman at every office party and holiday photo. Over the years he fully committed to playing the Grinch, Gilligan, Cousin Eddie, the conductor from The Polar Express, a very Travolta-inspired take on Pulp Fiction, Tiny Tim, Schroeder from Peanuts, Han Solo, and plenty more — always throwing himself into the role and always getting the whole office laughing. He once talked his coworkers into dressing up for the Kentucky Derby, hats and all, and any road trip to a meeting or office party came with a Dean-curated play list, complete with more music trivia than anyone asked for but everyone secretly enjoyed. He was, unsurprisingly, also on everyone's best-dressed list — a man of loud socks, blue suede shoes, and total confidence in both. When his coworkers, fishing for birthday gift ideas, asked him to name his favorite baseball team, Dean answered without missing a beat: the Toledo Mudhens. The T-shirt they got him earned one of his biggest laughs.

Even as his own health began to wane in recent years, Dean never stopped putting himself last, and he was known as a fearless mentor to other practices finding their footing. He spent his final day doing exactly what he loved most: caring for his patients. 

Dean was, without question, a man of vast and bottomless talent, and he lived like it. He kept meticulous tabs on the finest restaurants and the latest culinary trends, and turned cooking into an art form — elaborate feasts, a showstopping Beef Wellington, and drinks paired with the precision of a man who took his pleasures seriously. He was a true showman at heart: dressing the part, setting the scene, building models with his hands, and never missing a major event on the calendar, from the World Cup to the Kentucky Derby to Wimbledon and the Masters. Michigan never left his heart — he cheered for the Lions and Tigers till the end — though Chicago claimed a piece of him too, in the Cubs and White Sox.

More than anything, Dean was a father. Those who knew him well say he lit up whenever the conversation turned to his boys — swapping stories with friends about his sons' lives the way only a proud father does. He is survived by his two sons, Alec and Ethan, who were the centers of his world. From an early age, he instilled in them a love of music, art, and above all, food — pieces of his spirit that live on in their own creativity and humor today. He gave them experiences most kids only dream of, including watching the White Sox win it all during their 2005 championship season, and countless afternoons at Cubs and White Sox games. Whenever they stumbled, he was there — steady, supportive, and quietly making sure they always had what they needed to thrive.Dean was preceded in death by his parents, Betty and Raymond Bauer. He is survived by his sons, Alec and Ethan Bauer; his brother, Daniel (Becky) Bauer, their children, and many cousins; and the many patients, colleagues, and friends who were lucky enough to know him. Dean gave 110% to everything and everyone he loved — his patients, his craft, his sons, his passions. He appreciated the finest things in life, but never lost the modest, small-town heart he was born with. Rest easy, Dean. The next round is on us.

A celebration of life with be held at The Village Club, 4221 Lawn Avenue, Western Springs, IL 60558 on Saturday, August 22, 2026, from 9:30 a.m. until 1:30 p.m. An internment will be held thereafter for family.