Husky Superfan Ron Johnson Sells the Couch

Ron Johnson

Born March 15, 1939 - Ithaca, New York

Died October 1, 2024 - Tacoma, Washington

Washington Huskies Season Ticket Holder for 61 Years

Attended six Rose Bowls (1960, 1961, 1964, 1991, 1992, 1993 and 2001)

Favorite players: Bob Schloredt, Rick Redman, Sonny Sixkiller, Warren Moon, Joe Steele, Anthony Allen, Jacques Robinson, Ron Holmes, Steve Emtman, Lincoln Kennedy, Ed Cunningham, Dave Hoffmann, Lawyer Milloy, Benji Olson, Marques Tuiasosopo, Jake Locker, Myles Gaskin, Greg Gaines and Vita Vea.

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It was already a tough September. As some of you know, A CT scan and resulting biopsy in July revealed cancerous tumors in my neck and upper chest. One doctor's visit led to another as the drama built to the crescendo of surgery on September 23rd.

But simultaneous to this was a late night phone call I received on September 14. My dad, who had already been suffering with severe dementia for the past couple years, had gotten hit with Covid and pneumonia. My stepmom called me at midnight asking me to pick them up from St. Joseph's in Tacoma. I drove down through the night and reached the hospital. When I brought them home to their senior living community in Tacoma at 2:30AM, there was no wheelchair to borrow. So I had to half-carry my dad out of my car and get him up to their apartment.

One night later, once again in the wee hours, I received another phone call. Dad was back in the hospital. I drove down through the light traffic of late-night Southbound I-5. This time dad would not be discharged. I stayed with them until 8AM.

I was aware that I had a significant surgery coming up, and dad had Covid. It had taken me five weeks to get my surgery scheduled and I didn't need another delay. But at this point, I couldn't allow myself to worry about it.

Every day for the next week, I drove down to St Joseph's, and sat with papa as his condition worsened. While his memory was mostly gone, he always knew who I was. On Monday Sept 16th, I was standing near his bed. We were alone in the room. Nurses had restrained his arms because he kept removing the tubes and IV that were stuck into him. Suddenly he looked directly at me and stuck out his hand to shake mine. He said, "You were a great son and I love you." Dad and I never talked like that, so the comment caught me off guard.

On the morning of Saturday September 21, I drove down to the hospital at 5AM and sat with him for several hours. At this point, he could no longer speak at normal volume. He communicated through whispers that required him to summon physical effort. He slept much the time. His blood oxygen levels sank with each passing day.

"Hey dad, your alma mater is playing Grandpa Johnson's alma mater today."

His eyes stayed shut. He didn't respond. "Hey dad, Washington plays Northwestern today, papa. Are you going to watch it?"

"Well that sounds good," he said with his eyes remaining closed. Of course, I knew he wouldn't be watching, even if it was on the hospital TV above his bed.

Awhile later I received a text from my friend and former Husky Dave Hoffmann. I can still remember back in 2012, when Dave and I wrote the book The Husky Hitman. We did a book signing and talk at the downtown Bellevue Barnes and Noble. Dad was seated in the third row. In my mind's eye, I can still see dad eagerly raising his hand to ask Dave a question during the Q&A.

But now, as time drew short, dad was forgetting the names of family members and kept asking me what he did wrong "to get locked up like this."

I read the text from Hoffmann and repeated it aloud to papa. "Hey dad, Dave Hoffmann says God bless you and he hopes you're comfortable." I figured I would tell him about it even though technically it was probably pointless to try.

"Tell him I said, God bless him too," dad whispered. Admittedly, I figured dad probably didn't know who we were talking about. I figured he was being reflexively polite, as was his trademark.

I leaned close to his ear and said, "Dad, do you remember who Dave Hoffmann was?"

With God as my witness, my dad paused, and then whispered with eyes closed, "How could I ever forget?"

I left the hospital that day thinking it was the last time to see him. I was going to intentionally stay away on Sunday September 22 to rest up for Monday's surgery. I didn't want to test fate any further with the Covid nonsense.

Surgery occurred on Monday. It took five hours. When I regained consciousness I'm told I was violently heaving and whatnot. The surgery found more cancer than they expected, but they were hopeful they got everything they could reach.

I spent two days in the hospital and got home Tuesday night. But on Wednesday Sept 25, my friend **** received a call from my stepmom that the end was near for dad and she needed me at the hospital to help make decisions. Soon, **** picked me up and we drove down to Tacoma. I had tubes stuck in my neck for drainage and an eight-inch gash from my ear down and across my throat. I was quite a sight. We got to my dad's hospital room and I donned the gown and mask.

"Derek, what do we do?" my stepmom asked.

I said I would rather he pass away sooner and in comfort than to extend his life a few more days with added suffering. It was agreed to that that would be the plan.

Nurses removed dad's feeding tube and began administering morphine. Meanwhile, I was mildly laboring to breathe. "Oh my God Derek," **** said. "You don't look right,"

My skin had turned gray and my neck had suddenly swollen twice its normal size. I looked like a grotesque creature from outer space. It was suggested that I check in to the emergency room right where we were, but I would have none of it. I leaned toward my dad's ear for one final goodbye. "Good bye dad. My surgery went good and I'm going to be okay. I'm glad you were my dad."

My dad, with eyes still closed, whispered back, "You're a good boy." (First time in my life he ever said to me, even as a kid).

We returned to ****'s vehicle and headed back up I-5. She suggested that I call my surgeon. I got the doctor on the phone and explained what was happening. He told me to meet him at the Evergreen Hospital emergency room. We did so and that was where I spent the next several hours.

It was expected that dad would pass away last Thursday. But to everyone's amazement, he survived through the weekend and into this week.

Finally, yesterday morning (October 1st), I had just gotten home from the doctor. They'd removed the drainage tubes from my neck. (The surgeon said I was looking remarkably well, all things considered). My phone rang. It was my stepmom. She said dad passed at 11:30AM. A life's journey that took my papa from New York to Seattle had finally ended on a quiet Tuesday morning in Tacoma.

I went to a nearby park in Bothell. The sun was out. I sat on a wooden bench and removed my shoes. I felt the grass. My phone was blowing up but I sat there for an hour just staring at the ground or looking up into the blue sky.

I smiled thinking of a bedside exchange at St Joseph's a week earlier. After dad had extended his hand and thanked me for being his son, he said he was impressed with the books I had written. For some reason, I felt dubious that he may not be fully aware of what he was saying. His memory was so ravaged by dementia and the Covid/pneumonia was wiping him out. This was such a specific detail.

I smiled through tears and said, "You're proud of the books, huh dad?" He nodded. But I wanted to test the veracity.

"What about Hardcore Husky?" I asked with a smile. "What about my website?"

He paused to slowly turn his head toward me.

"Your website had a bit too much profanity for my taste," he said.