On the afternoon of August 14, 2003 the electricity in New York City shut down. The first person I called for help was my upstairs neighbor Muriel Lloyd. I was stuck in my apartment with my teenage son and two of his teenage friends, and she was trapped in her fourteenth floor apartment with her granddaughters. We had no television, no video games, no elevator, limited phone service and the knowledge that the water would soon run out. “This is going to be fun!” Muriel said. She was right. We read by candlelight and told stories. We sat and talked in a way that’s unusual for teens. We walked down 14 flights of stairs by flashlight and went out to the ice cream truck for a treat.
Muriel Lloyd was my loving friend and neighbor for almost twenty years. When we first moved in—I was a single mother with two small children—Muriel and her husband Bill were the neighborhood’s most glamorous couple. When they went to Connecticut for the summer, Bill would laugh happily as he rented a second car for Muriel’s clothes. When Bill got sick, Muriel showed me what gallantry could mean. She never faltered in her cheerful care of Bill or in her conviction that he was going to be all right…whatever happened. Bill’s death shocked the whole community, but Muriel continued to be a beacon of faith and an almost constant comfort to anyone who turned to her in trouble. She became a second mother to my growing children, helping them with homework and playing chess with them and giving them help they couldn’t accept from me.
When Muriel herself got sick, her spirit was undimmed. She had always been terrified of cancer, and now she had it—she laughed at the cosmic joke that seemed to be played on her, and I mean she really found it amusing. Muriel’s faith in God and her impish sense of humor seemed to grow stronger as she grew sicker. She buoyantly kept on doing the things which she enjoyed—lunch with friends, tap dancing lessons, mornings at the gym. She loved to shop, adding elegant suits and shoes to her already elegant wardrobe—a few months before she died, she bought a beautiful mink coat, and it gave her tremendous pleasure.
As she went through chemo treatments and hospital visits, she refused to give in to fear or self-pity. What a classy attitude she had! Each day was a new beginning which she welcomed with gratitude even when she faced a pile of pills which she knew would make her feel absolutely awful for hours.
Each day was a new beginning which she welcomed with gratitude even when she faced a pile of pills…
In her last days, Muriel had called an ambulance and I met her at Sloan Kettering in the emergency room. There were many emergencies that spring day. Muriel waited patiently on a gurney, sling backs elegantly crossed and ladylike bag by her side. When it was clear the wait would be for hours I told her I would be back as soon as I could be—I had a child at home and needed a shower. I raced home, fed my son, took a shower and ran out the door. As I tore out the entrance of my building to get back to the hospital I ran into Muriel sedately coming home. She looked pleased to be there.
“Muriel!” I said. “I thought you were at the hospital.”
“Oh the wait was going to be too long,” she said. “I didn’t want to trouble them so I thought I would come and wait at home.” We both started to laugh. I took her upstairs and settled her back in bed with a book. She seemed thrilled to be there and happy to know that her son was on his way too.
…she never failed to see the sunny side of things…
Even then, she had taken an emergency and made it into an adventure. Her loving spirit, which had never failed to see the sunny side of things, was intact even at the end of her life. Now, when I panic about this or that, I can still hear her voice telling me to calm down. “This is going to be fun!” she says.
Susan Cheever, a prolific author of novels, biographies and memoirs, was inspired by Muriel’s love and friendship for many years. Susan’s latest book is Louisa May Alcott: A Personal Biography (2010).
