No, they're not going to saw off my leg (I hope.)
I'll be in the hospital for hip replacement surgery. They've already replaced my right hip. This time it's the left. But that's only part of my ongoing old-age parts replacement program.
The lenses that nature grew for me in both eyes developed cataracts and were long ago removed and replaced with optical something-or-other. I now have 20-20 vision in both eyes, so I can look in the mirror and watch myself growing older without the assistance of eyeglasses.
Well, I still have my original knees and elbows. (But don't tell the doctors.)
By the time I finally buy the farm, I expect that I'll have more replacement parts in me than a 1951 Ford, assuming this keeps up.
On the other hand, what choice have I got?
The benefit to you, my long-suffering readers, is that when I return, after several weeks of pain and discomfort, and putting up with the bureaucratic cover-our-institution's-administrative-ass crap that the hospital has already begun dishing out to me, I should be mad as hell. I'm talking rip-roaring, flame-spouting, insanely head-exploding furious. Which should make for some lively reading. (Unless the Oxycodone — or is it Oxycontin? — that they always prescribe post-op temporarily renders me a happy vegetable. Who knows?)
Anyway, see you around the end of the month.