I'm that guy who doesn't want to know what they are going to do to my leg next week, if it's all the same to the staff. I came downstairs a couple of weeks ago and there was Peggy with her tablet, looking at a video of some other poor soul having his knee re-replaced, which is what they are going to do to me next week. She thrilled to the closeups of the saw and the drill and the giant pain machine, and she found fascinating the surgeon's play-by-play ("And nowwwwwwwwwwwww we insert the new tibial component like SO!").
The new fake knee from 2000 is shot, and I "kneed" to have it replaced. So in they go, out with the old and in with the new. That's all good. But I am not a good patient. (surprised gasp.)
I don't like being confined, I can't sleep on my back, and anesthesia makes me gassy.
On the other hand, I am forever grateful for having health insurance that will cover this. Fifty years ago I would still be clomping around like Chester on "Gunsmoke."
Of course, fifty years ago, so was Chester.