I had one last pre-op conversation with the primary surgeon this morning. We went over the plan, took some baseline measurements, and I got to raise all the concerns I'd come up with since the last visit. I now have my time and specific instructions for day of surgery, and I told her about my situation in case staying overnight would be safer than going home right after (now that we know about my reduced lung capacity). I was under the impression that we weren't taking a lymph node this time around, but I learned differently. That was the measurement they took, to be able to monitor for lymphedema, as I tell phlebotomists and blood pressure takers to swap sides from here on out. As if my medical visits weren't complex enough. I'm going to need to keep a diary in my phone calendar, to have half a chance to keep it all straight. The folks on disability Twitter say this is a full-time job, but even they would feel sorry for me for having to work overtime now.
Two years ago, my mom came up to stay with me during surgery and the first few days of recovery. She was just here again this past spring, so my feelings weren't hurt when she asked whether my crew here would take good enough care of me that she could stay home and wouldn't have to worry. I assured her that I have an excellent support system, and I have learned quite well when to quit the field and take care of myself. I am not too proud to say when I need a rest, and nobody will need me to be mommy for the month following surgery. I proposed to her that from this moment on, that act should also be known as a "Biles," just like all the other wild moves with a high degree of difficulty that few people in the world are brave enough to try, save for my eternal hero Simone.
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