Utahns were crestfallen this month at our loss of Jon M. Huntsman Sr., whose name was instantly recognized as a successful industrialist, as an exemplary philanthropist, as a man who made it his mission to relieve human suffering. That he is mourned by the masses is fitting. He earned our love and admiration, and our tears at his passing.
Most honor Jon Huntsman for giving on a grand scale — for funding far-reaching humanitarian undertakings. Those of us who served on his staff have our own private reasons to pay tribute to this man — whom we knew as “JMH” or “the Chairman” or, in my case, as mentor and friend.
Throughout my 26 years at Huntsman Corp., until retiring in March 2015, I took away valuable life lessons from my gracious boss. As his executive assistant, and later with other roles in his office, I was personally touched by his largesse. His help with my home remodel funded the bathroom and kitchen cabinets. He marked my 50th birthday with a “birthday car” and floor seat tickets to a Jazz game. Those gestures were exciting and deeply appreciated, but one miraculous gesture surpassed anything, before or since.
I retired a year early to care for my sweetheart, Tom Florence, diagnosed with mesothelioma the prior November. He endured chemo from January to June 2015, when his body rejected it. Tom went untreated until he was accepted that December into a clinical trial of an immunotherapy drug showing promise with mesothelioma.
We flew to Chicago every three weeks through March 2016 for his infusions, and the drug was working. Its side effects, however, proved devastating. By April 27, 2016, he was so weak that he needed a wheelchair in the airports as we traveled to receive his scheduled infusion. Instead, Tom was admitted, given intravenous fluids and offered a colostomy procedure. Tom refused but, by the seventh day, it was clear that nothing more could be done for him. Nor would the doctors release him to negotiate the airports in such a weakened condition.
Tom became terribly agitated. “Don’t let me die in this hospital. You’ve got to get me home.”
Frantic, I called Mr. Huntsman’s executive assistant, Pam Bailey.
“The last thing I want to do is impose on Mr. Huntsman,” I wept to her on the phone, “but I don’t know how else to get him home.”
The next day she called me back.
“Tell the doctors to get Tom ready to fly on Saturday. Jon’s going to send his plane.”
On May 7, 2016, Jon Huntsman sent an empty Gulfstream IV from Salt Lake International to Chicago’s Midway Airport to take my Tommy home.
A chauffeured car appeared outside the hospital and drove us to Midway, where the familiar sight of the Huntsman logo brought tears of relief. The flight crew carried Tom by his elbows up the stairway into the plane. He was thrilled to be in that luxurious cabin, swiveling in the club chairs and posing for pictures with a huge grin on his sunken face. We were in Salt Lake within 2½ hours.
Tom entered hospice care the following week and remained at home where, five weeks later, he gasped his last labored breath.
Of all the extraordinary ways in which Mr. Huntsman worked his humanitarian magic, Tom’s children and I are forever grateful for this particular act of compassion. We celebrated Tom’s 73rd birthday on Feb. 13. We also celebrated Mr. Huntsman’s life and his wondrous gift to a grateful staffer.
Jannie Spader, Holladay, was executive assistant to Jon H. Huntsman Sr. from 1995 to 2001.