Dying Grace

By Dan Kochapski

When my dad, Ron Kochapski, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer at age 59, my family gathered around him every night to pray the Rosary. As things looked more and more grim, he maintained the strongest faith of all, constantly reminding us, "My life is in God's hands."

In early Feb. 2010, my dad was placed under hospice care at our home in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. On Tuesday, Feb. 16, 2010, my dad's mother passed away unexpectedly. After we broke this news to my dad, his condition seemed to get even worse.

At the funeral service for my grandmother, I watched as the pallbearers put her casket into the hearse. I hugged my sister, Amy, and as tears streamed down both our faces, I asked, "How are we ever going to do this for our father?"

When we returned from the funeral that Friday, Feb. 19, the hospice nurse advised us that my father was truly on the final step of his own journey. "I would be surprised if he made it through the night," she said. Even though I had been preparing myself to receive this news for a while, I felt like I had just been punched in the stomach.

Since my dad could not attend his mother's funeral, our pastor, Msgr. Mike, came over that evening to say Mass at my dad's bedside. After Mass, Msgr. Mike gave my dad Anointing of the Sick.

A constant stream of my dad's family members came to say goodbye. My uncle Jim pulled my two sisters and me aside to talk about my father's pending death. Uncle Jim told us that my dad's passing was going to be an experience my mother and the three of us would want to share on our own. He also said that, as hard as this situation would be, the Holy Spirit would provide us with what he called "dying grace." This grace, he said, would help us make it through my dad's death, and the subsequent wake and funeral. At the time, I struggled to believe that I would get through this difficult experience. I just hoped and prayed that my uncle was right.

At 1:45 a.m. on Feb. 20, 2010, my dad asked to see my sisters, my mom, and me all together. Immediately upon entering my dad's brightly lit room, I felt this strange, indescribable peacefulness. As we gathered around his bed, I could hear him breathing heavily, and I knew he was struggling to get air. We prayed the Rosary together as a family while my dad mouthed the words, not strong enough to speak above a whisper.

For the next couple hours following the Rosary, we reminisced and even shared a few laughs. At around 4 a.m., my dad asked one of us to open the window. At first, I was shocked to hear such a request, considering it was before dawn in the freezing winter. But my sister hit me on the arm and said, "Danny, open the window!" When I did, something amazing happened: Not one breath of cold air came into the room.

Over the previous several months, my dad's powerful speaking voice had become quiet and raspy. As I returned to his bedside, though, in a loud and healthy voice, he said suddenly, "Oh, my goodness!" In the days prior, his illness had also left him unable to move his arms. But at that moment, he sat up and began waving his arms freely, as if he were hugging someone. "Oh my goodness," he said again and again as he continued to reach out toward someone only he could see. We believe that at this point, my dad was meeting his mother in Heaven.

While my dad was seeing visions from beyond, my mom, my sisters, and I all reassured him that we would be all right when he passed. After we made this promise, my dad closed his eyes and took his final breath. We sat in that room at 4 a.m., and tears flowed down all of our faces. None of us were hysterical, though. It was actually a peaceful time.

Looking back, I now understand the final part of the Hail Mary: that Heaven hears our prayers "now and at the hour of our death." God provided us with the grace we needed to make it through my father's passing. And thanks to dying grace, we had the privilege of watching as my dad reunited, not only with his own earthly mother, but with his heavenly mother, too.
jbk

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