Cutlers in India: December 2008

March 2, 1950 - December 14, 2008

She passed away peacefully December 14, 2008. The mother of my husband, the grandmother of my children, the mother-in-law everyone should have. But we were able to be here. We were able to talk to her, to hold her hand, to wipe her face with cool cloths, to sing to her, to read to her, to kiss her goodnight. We were able to keep Grandpa's house loud and messy, and crack plenty of jokes in a feeble attempt to keep us from tumbling into the reality that our mother and Ross's dear sweetheart is no longer on this earth.

There have been many miracles. Breast cancer diagnosed in 1999, treated, and sent into remission for a time. She was able to be here while all four of her living children grew into adulthood and saw them all get married in the temple.

Six of her grandchildren were able to know their grandmother, read stories with her, work with her, cuddle with her, cook with her, and play with her.

And one beautiful granddaughter was born one day before her death and now bears half of her name--Lyndia--and reminds us all of the beauty of life.

Claudia lived four years of her busy, motherly life after the dreadful pronouncement that the cancer had returned and metastasized all over her body. She did everything the doctors ordered and bore the horrible effects of more chemotherapy treatments, radiation therapies, and gamma ray surgeries on her brain. Because of her stamina and faith, she lived much longer than science predicted. And she lived well.

I knew her nearly ten years, nine of which she lived with breast cancer, yet she didn't define herself by the disease nor speak of it much. I was her somewhat insecure daughter-in-law who longed to be a great wife but lacked many of the skills I needed; she accepted me with unconditional love, gently teaching me things I wanted to know and things I didn't know I needed to know until later.

Her house wasn't perfectly clean, but she knew how to make things grow. She didn't always fold her laundry right out of the dryer, but she knew how to make and fix any article of clothing. She knew how to cook everything from scratch and had every tool imaginable to do it with. She came to visit us in India. She prayed for us. She sewed cushion covers for our couch. She made amazing quilts for Isaac and Russell and a beautiful blessing outfit for Graham.

She studied the scriptures and the words of the prophets, and weaved them into so many casual conversations about life. She babied my lemon tree while we were in India better than I ever would have.

She taught me how to use the light of the sun to whiten my whites. She taught me how to magnify my callings by studying the handbook and relying on my priesthood leaders. She taught me how to cook fresh food from scratch, how to cook beans just right so they taste like a feast. She bought me clothes on sale that livened up my sloppy wardrobe, and thoughtful gifts for my kids that helped them grow and develop. She worked in the temple nearly every week, even when she didn't feel very well, up until a few weeks before her death. She taught me to slow down and enjoy the moment, to focus on my kids and read to them more.

On her last visit to our home in Austin, it was Halloween and she went trick-or-treating with the kids in the bicycle rickshaw. She made us lasagna and sewed the backing on our elephant quilt so we could hang it on the wall.

At Thanksgiving we joined them at Katie's house in Katy, and I knew something had changed when she left us on our own to make the feast without any direction from her. Yet even though she felt rotten, she put on the blue skirt I had brought her from India and put on her makeup to come to the table and eat our clumsy feast.

She tasted and complimented everything, and then she went back to bed to rest, but asked us to leave the door open so she could hear the children running by and playing. Later that night she came out to the living room to watch cheesy movies with us. She always wanted to be in the middle of all the action, involved in all the fun and joy of our lives.

A week later all of her children sat with her in a hospital room in Dallas and laughed together, despite the grim pronouncement that her liver was failing. When I visited with her, she told me she didn't even want to feel better anymore, but she still smiled. When she left the hospital to come home, she had Katie do her makeup and she sat on the couch and talked to everyone who had come to see her--her mother and father, her brother David and her sister Elizabeth and her husband Don. I cooked and cleaned like a maniac, terrified for what long road may lay ahead for everyone. We set up the Christmas tree and ate one last meal together.

On Sunday we partook of the sacrament together in the Spirit-filled living room with the deacons who had come. I wish I had spent more time by her side on that visit. As we left in a rush that Sunday to go back to Austin, I came into her room in my boots, blue ruffled skirt, and scarf to say goodbye, and she said, "That's a nice outfit!" She was always a fashion guru, always so kind and complimentary to me.

When we came back five days later, another piece of her was gone. She could still speak a little, but her look was vacant, her breathing labored, her face contorted in pain. It was painful to stay by her side now, but I longed to do it more this time. After coming to grips with the fact that she wasn't completely there anymore, it began to feel peaceful to sit by her side and listen to her breathing, remembering all she had taught me and all that she was and still is.

After partaking of the sacrament one last time in her home, on Sunday, December 14th at 10:23 pm, she peacefully breathed her last breath in her bedroom with Rich, Katie, Dad and I by her side. She no longer feels any pain, and I know she's working hard in the Spirit World and making up for lost time with her daughter Becky. Looking back, her last words to me were uttered the day before she died and were: "We need to get working on it." Thinking she was talking about the Christmas shopping, I rubbed her shoulder and said, "You don't need to worry about it. We will take care of it. It's your job to rest." Unwittingly, I suppose I committed to continue her work on the earth. A tall order that could take a lifetime and the help of some pretty amazing other Cutlers. I'm so blessed and happy to call myself one of them.