As Sylvia returned to her Lexus, she was suddenly hit with a rush of exhaustion, much like a dust storm, a common occurrence in her part of the country. She felt a weakness in her legs as she had often felt when the exercise boom hit just before the big oil bust of the 80’s, the height of her amateur Tennis league days. Of course it could be the cancer, hell, I haven’t been able to take a full breath without coughing my lungs out in months. But this was a different type of exhaustion. Sylvia took the half breath that she had at her disposal and fell into the driver’s seat. As quickly as she sat, she reached into her bag and pulled out her Marlboro Light 100s. We deserve this, maybe even two this time. Sylvia had to ration her cigarettes since she had been diagnosed with small cell lung cancer. She allowed herself a cigarette in the morning, which she jokingly referred to as her “shit-cig”, paired with caffeine, it was the perfect recipe for her daily constitutional. In the evening, she allowed herself a “night-cig” to go hand in hand with her nightcap. On difficult days, Sylvia would indulge in an afternoon cigarette or two, but never too many, if she happened to want anymore, her bloody cough would keep her from lighting up.

 It was nearly 30 years before when the oil glut took the piss and vinegar out of the town, and suddenly she and everyone around her aged a little more rapidly. In the ten or so years between the oil bust of 86’ to the all-time price low of 98’ she and Marty moved into separate bedrooms and nearly drank their livers into oblivion, although their scotch choice was no longer top shelf.

The two of them, and generally everyone at the Racquet Club were all in denial of their financial losses. When they had to take a second mortgage out on their property, Sylvia was terrified of who the banker might  happen to know and if he would whisper the spectacle of their financial ruin into the wrong ear. Shortly before, Amy had been accepted to college, of course it would be unseen for her to attend a public institution, so she attended Texas Christian University in Fort Worth which cost around 25 grand a year at the time. Sylvia hoped she would skate through in four years and promptly get married and out of her immediate care, and most importantly, her bills.

Driving toward her house in “old Midland” Sylvia was aghast at the traffic on Garfield Street. This town has turned to complete shit, all these roughnecks move in here and think they own the town with their brand new cars that  they won’t be able to afford in five years. Since she had lived through a few booms and busts, she knew how to live conservatively enough to make it through the next bust. These new money idiots don’t know what’s coming, they’re gonna be broke off their ass spending money on shit they can’t afford. Since leaving the group therapy session she felt uneasy, and she always resorted to putting down the lower class of individuals that were moving into her neighborhood.

As Sylvia pulled into the garage of her town home, she could already hear her Yorkies yapping at the back door. Goddamn annoying little shits. She sat for a while before going in, cursing Marty for causing her to move into such a drab little town home. She and Marty had barely been married at all, it was mostly a marriage of convenience. She was the daughter of a prominent oil and gas family and when they met, he was working as a Landman for her father. At the beginning of their courtship and eventual marriage, Marty was very charming. It was the 70’s and oil prices were high and so was everyone. There were wild parties at the Petroleum Club, and Marty had introduced her to cocaine. It was in the throws of a wild snow filled flurry that they had conceived Amy. Sylvia was almost certain that was the only time that they had really had any sex, the few other times were forced out of a drunken mess. The disparity of her sex life left Sylvia abusing the drug until they could no longer afford her habits in the mid 80’s. When Marty finally left her, he ran away with a man who owned a boat. Last she heard he was sailing the Caribbean. It was no surprise to her that he was gay, in fact it would have been a relief if she wasn’t ashamed to show herself in their old social scene.

She greeted her dogs Lilly and Daisy as they leaped, spun and panted at her feet, named during her gardening phase from a few years back.  The afternoon had flown by and she was relieved that soon she could relax on her sun chair and wait for evening to allow her to go to sleep. Well I gave it a shot, at least Dr. Allen can’t say I didn’t try. Although she had enjoyed the company of the individuals she had met in her grief therapy group, she knew it was beneath her to be in their company.

Sylvia had only gone to the group therapy session during a “weak moment” as she called it. She had seen the flier leaving Dr. Allen’s office, the physician overlooking her cancer treatment, or lack there of in Sylvia’s case. Dr. Allen had expressed concern over her lack of pro-activeness in treating her lung cancer and recommended she seek counseling. She had simply refused to take on any chemotherapy or radiation. When asked why, Sylvia’s only response was in a state of complete lassitude, “Whats the point, I’m old and I’m done. That’s that.”