I hate July. I hate July with a royal passion. Everything bad happens in July. My mom died in July. My dad died on an August first, but what killed him hit in July. James had his first heart attack in July. I lost my PT Cruiser in July. As I have gotten older July has come to stand for all that is misbegotten about summer: the chronic, debilitating heat; the swarms of insects that pounce on me day and night; the sunlight that makes my eyes flinch and swim; the endless race from air-conditioned house to air-conditioned supermarket to air-conditioned whatever location and then back, to collapse in perspiration-soaked weakness under a ceiling fan; the endless cheerful chirping relentlessness of the weather forecasters proclaiming another sunny day...

As 2020 has been particularly odious, July has turned out to be just more moldy icing on a rotting cake. My sister-in-law's foot infection has taken a turn for the worse, partially due to what sounds like doctor neglect. She is going to have to have the foot amputated. A friend of ours who hoped a small surgery on her heart would correct her problem faces another, more complicated surgery in the autumn. There's still no word when James will go back to work...not to mention no assurance that he will. The heat is intense; we can't go out more than two hours before returning home exhausted. There's no watching the news anymore; it's too depressing.

There's only refuge in books, and budgie song, and Christmas music.

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. . . . . noted and logged by Linda at 10:40:00 PM

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