My heart is rehabilitated. My heart has completed its sentence for its crimes against humanity – my humanity. There is still a part of my heart that earnestly believes that I am actually to blame and my heart is an innocent victim of my own physio-syncracies, but, of course, my heart is wrong. Otherwise, why would they call it “cardio-rehab?” At any rate, thirty-six plus sessions, miles on the treadmill, thousands of steps on the Newstep, and a cross state journey on a bicycle that never actually took me anywhere, and I have finished the program. I finished stronger than I started, which was the goal. I finished strong enough to put two coats of fresh pink paint on our guest room walls, even standing on a stepladder and sometimes on my head. I also have a contract, signed and sealed, between myself and my heart: no murder-suicides, please. So I am in the pink, and so will be our guests. The only question now that I am a graduate from rehab, what about probation?
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