Sylvia

Sylvia was way too beautiful for the small Southern town to hold her.
So she left for college with new clothes and a pack of Lucky Strikes.

Sylvia’s daddy, Otto Brice, wasn’t exactly rich, but he was well able to send his children to nice schools. Sylvia’s mother, Eleanor, was regimented and insisted on structure in her daily activities.

Sylvia loved her parents, but she was a free spirit and looked forward to the taste of independence college life would provide.

The University of Alabama captured Sylvia’s heart. The campus was beautiful, with mature trees and ancient buildings. The women’s dorm smelled of waxed floors and musty books, flowery perfume and toothpaste, leather luggage and shampoo.

Sylvia met girls from all over the United States. She made friends easily and drew people in with her beauty and natural wit. Her assigned roommate was fun to be around, and they had a lot in common.

There were multitudes of friendly students crossing the quadrangle and pacing the sidewalks, heading to their respective classes.

Back in the day, girls often went to college to find a husband. They would spend a couple of years taking classes and, if they were pretty enough, would eventually walk arm in arm down the aisle with their beloved by their sides.

But at that time in her young life, Sylvia wasn’t interested in marriage.

She was interested in boys in general.

Freedom came quickly to Sylvia.

Perhaps too quickly.

She discovered boys, parties, and an unfettered lifestyle she had never known. Before long, she was pregnant and wasn’t certain who the father was.

One thing was certain: she could never let her parents know.

She felt she had no choice but to seek out someone to help her with her current problem. She confided in a dorm mate who knew someone who knew someone.

Sylvia had never felt so alone and lonely.

She wanted her brother, but there was nothing he could do. He was at the same university but was caught up in fraternity life. And anyway, he was her big brother and would probably give her a lecture—which she felt she needed and, at the same time, didn’t need.

She didn’t need any more condemnation than she was already placing upon herself.

That night she walked unaccompanied down a dark street and knocked on an unidentified door. She was met by two husky women who appeared to have no compassion.

Sylvia was instructed to lift herself onto a table and place her feet in stirrups.

The procedure was extremely painful. Along with the pain came a cry from somewhere deep in her soul—a cry of fear, hurt, and regret.

She could not have known what the years ahead would bring, but she would later believe that with the rushing blood went her chance of ever giving birth to a child.

The women gave her a bottle of pain pills and sent her on her way.

The bleeding eventually slowed, and she left as quickly as she had entered the dirty room.

Sylvia was alone, exhausted, and spent. She felt as if her life were over. How could she ever forgive herself? How could she go back to class and act normal around her newfound friends?

Depression overcame her while the physical pain hurt just as badly.

Eventually Sylvia slipped back into campus life, but beneath her beauty and wit, she carried an agony no one could see. She managed to portray herself as a typical young student.

She took up horseback riding and thoroughly enjoyed the sport until one winter day, the horse threw her.

She landed on her back.

She passed out the moment she hit the ground. Medics came, lifted her onto a stretcher, and whisked her away in an ambulance.

Sylvia’s back was broken.

She stayed in the hospital for a very long time and had to remove herself from the rest of the school year. Her brother, Clarence, was with her as often as he could be.

The brother she had once been afraid would lecture and condemn her became the one person who refused to leave her alone.

She looked forward to his visits, but the piercing hurt deep down inside would not go away. She felt responsible for everything she had gone through. The guilt became so intense that she began taking more and more pain medication.

The codeine lifted her spirits—for a little while, anyway. And the codeine was readily available to her.

Her parents drove to Tuscaloosa soon after the accident. Her roommate and friends dropped by to visit. But eventually the visitors waned and resumed their studies and partying on the weekends.

She was alone once again, except for Clarence, who stuck by her side.

After months of rehabilitation, her back healed, and she was finally able to walk out of the hospital.

Alcohol replaced pills.

Sylvia met and fell in love with Bill Nelson. They married and moved to Arkansas. They adopted a beautiful daughter and named her Karen. She was my age, and I was thrilled to have a first cousin.

For a while, perhaps Sylvia had found what she had been searching for all along—a husband who loved her, a daughter of her own, and a family.

But alcohol took over.

At first it wasn’t so noticeable. It was just an addition to her inherent wit and fun, crazy personality. Everyone loved being around my aunt Sylvia.

But as the years passed, alcohol began taking more and more of her away from the people who loved her.

After years of marriage, Bill finally had to let go of the only woman he had ever loved.

Not because he had stopped loving her, but because sometimes love isn’t enough.

Years passed, and Sylvia eventually came home to live with her mother.

One morning, Ricie called Sylvia to breakfast, but she didn’t come to the table.

Ricie walked to the little apartment at the back of her house, knocked and opened the door, calling her name.

“Sylvia?”

There was no answer.

At seventy-three, Sylvia had passed away sometime during the night.

The beautiful, free-spirited girl who had once left a small Southern town with new clothes and a pack of Lucky Strikes had finally come home.

I pray that when Sylvia closed her eyes for the last time, she left her sadness behind.

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