Picture this

If I imagine the inside of a busted hip joint—such as my own—I see the jagged edges of worn bone. The eggshell space of a cavernous cyst. The bloodied pink and red bits. The way the bone is not pristine white like in those plastic Halloween skeletons.

I imagine the wet squoosh of all the surrounding structures: the cartilage, the muscles, the tissues. The perimeters of the socket that should be thin but have thickened, and the parts that should be supple but are now brittle.

Sometimes I imagine what my joint space used to look like: Plump, generous, textbook. I was so ungrateful for my two healthy hips, but it wasn’t really my fault. You’re not supposed to think about your joints when you’re young.

Granted, I’m still pretty damn young for a hip replacement. But here I am.

My surgery is in three weeks, and I think a lot about how the surgeon will slice into the front of my thigh. Will he cut against the grain? With the grain? I only recently learned that the skin even has a grain.

I don’t watch YouTube videos of hip replacements. I know they exist, but I don’t have the mental fortitude or the stomach for it. I only think about the tools for the job in vague terms:

• Bone saw.

• Power sander, to grind down the socket.

• The thing they use to bore into and hollow out the femur.

• New metal hip socket.

• Bone glue.

• New titanium stem with a ceramic doorknob on top.

I don’t know if surgeons are saints or sickos. I do know many of the stereotypes about surgeons and their egos and god complexes. Some of the surgeons I’ve met have lived up to that unflattering caricature. This used to upset me more, but when you need a surgeon, as I do, you’re usually desperate. At some point, you lose the stamina and the will to wonder exactly why your doctor chose this field or what it means for him to be unflinching in the OR as he saws and grinds down human bone.

After all, that’s what you want in a surgeon: Someone unflinching. Steady-handed. Certain of himself and his task inside your body. All you can hope for is that this person is confident without being a con man. All you can hope is that he’ll get you the best possible outcome, even when his office texts you an affiliate link to a $300 pre-op protein shake system—why the fuck are these doctors side-hustling for kickbacks?

There is always some good reason for righteous outrage. But right now, I just need the guy with the experience and the bone saw to do right by my body. I need him to take me apart and leave me better than he found me. I need to hold onto the faith that “better” is indeed possible.