Amy says that she hates this week in July every year and never knows how she will feel (http://www.blog.amykendall.com.au/2012/07/thankfulthursday.html) because her Dad died in July 2007.
I have felt like this for at least the last 16 years since my father died on 5 July 1996 and left a gaping hole in our family. We had never lost a close relative before except for grandparents. After that day I never again enjoyed Father's Day and I no longer wanted to acknowledge it for Peter and our children. To this day I still have trouble looking at wood turned objects as they remind me too much of Dad.
After Dad died I found myself dreading the onset of Winter, the longer nights and shorter days with little or no sunshine always reminding me of those first shocking days without my father. I always began to feel more "down" than usual as July approached and I would often try to take some annual leave in mid-July just as a break from my usual routine.
In 2001, six months of workplace harassment culminated in my leaving my job on 28 June and since then I approach June and July with some dread as I relive the mental anguish that I suffered at that time. Each year I deliberately take some time off work in July and I try to go north to the sun to try and make some happier memories.
Five years ago Peter died on 15 July and so July became even more difficult to endure. There are so many painful memories linked to the last 6 months of his life that I am still learning to deal with. July with its seemingly endless cold, dark days epitomises the sadness that I felt then and still continue to feel.
This year I made a conscious decision to mourn formally for Peter one more time and then move on, as if I had decided that five years of grief was plenty; as if tomorrow I would be a different person, carrying no grief and only happy memories.
But the day after the 5th anniversary of Peter's death I suffered a significant angina attack and I realised then that my body was obviously not listening to my mind.
The pain I had thought was asthma and muscle strain over the preceding weeks made itself felt very definitely as a heart problem.
Perhaps my heart had been broken and this was the pain of it mending itself; or possibly the thought of no more grieving for Peter was just too much for my body.
