Melisse and I were strolling her young daughter down the streets of DC when Evelyn shouted “It’s busterated. Fix it! Fix it! Fix it!”  For the life of me, I can’t remember what got broken.  Some toy, doll, sippy cup.  Who knows.  But it was busted and Evelyn was frustrated and she invented a new word.  Rick and I adopted that word into our lexicon because there was a need for it.

My heart is busterated.  Today is the one week anniversary of my surgery. Try as I might, I just do not know if I feel better, worse or the same.  Probably the same since I can’t tell.  I was waiting to blog about my heart until I had something more definitive.  I was hoping that when I woke up from the anesthesia it would be like having a new pair of glasses.  Ahhhhh.  That’s what the world looks like.  But it hasn’t been like that.

I’m still recovering from the surgery.  It doesn’t get any easier as you age to put your body through that kind of trauma. There’s sleep deprivation, pokes and prods, round the clock invasions, low blood pressure, uncomfortable mattress.  And I can’t even begin to guess the thread count on what they call sheets.  

So, I’m home now listening to my heart.  Gauging my breaths. Driving myself crazy.  I have hosted my own pity party, I have gone down dark roads I had no business being on. But I have not stayed there.  I have taken a shower, I have gotten dressed, Rick has driven me around, we met some friends for dinner, I have a friend coming over today for lunch to give me a refresher course in knitting.  Life goes on. Yes, my heart is busterated, but it is still trying as hard as it can and I must too.