It was as close as I’ll ever get to resembling Michael Phelps: Undergoing the complete removal of body hair, from the neck down, in preparation for a significant occurrence.

In the case of Phelps and other elite swimmers, shaving their arms, legs, backs, armpits and chests is a time-honored ritual in pursuit of the slightest edge in major international competition. The practice may be as much a psyche job as a physical benefit; former Olympic champion John Naber once explained it by recalling how comedian Steve Martin “used to say that he put a slice of baloney in his shoes before he performed to help him feel funny. Well, shaving helps you feel fast.”

Me? I was obliged to undergo a thorough depilation as an essential bit of readiness prior to open-heart surgery. The hospital orderly wielding electric clippers kept assuring me of the need to eliminate any bacteria that may cling to body hair. Anyway, since that pre-event pageantry—like a ribbon-cutting or breaking a bottle of champagne over a ship’s bow—occurred before the administration of anesthesia, it’s about all I remember about the whole process.

As my wife has noted, I emerged from the post-op fog repeatedly asking, “When are they going to do the surgery?”

By then, of course, I was hooked up to an IV drip, nasal oxygen prongs, blood-pressure cuff, bladder catheter and heart monitor, with a small plastic drainage tube protruding from my torso. And still there was some sense that the entire deal might have been a parlor trick, a sawing-the-woman-in-half illusion. I can’t say I ever was in any real pain. Some degree of post-operative discomfort and boredom, yes.

The team of surgeons—and let’s hear it for the best in modern medicine—had carved a four-inch opening in my sternum in order to fix a badly leaking aortic valve, then glued me back together, all in about three hours. For the next few days, I was fed pills of various shapes, colors and functions—some to get rid of extra fluids, some to counter dehydration, some to insure against an irregular heartbeat, some to regulate cholesterol, maybe a couple of placebos, for all I know.

I suppose that people in my age bracket, almost three-quarters of a century without having shuffled off this mortal coil, have an increasing likelihood of such adventures. Body parts start to wear out, and it had been a year-and-a-half since my primary-care doctor, during a routine physical, detected a heart murmur. That led to a visit with a cardiologist and occasional monitoring of the situation—without any lifestyle changes—until the most recent round of tests precipitated the human equivalent of a service recall.

I was informed by my surgeon that the necessary repair would be accomplished via a “minimally invasive” procedure and that there was only a one percent chance I wouldn’t make it through. Just in case, though, my wife lined up two Broadway plays and a ballet the week before surgery. The kind of things you can’t take with you.

It turned out there was no rush for such unrestricted leisure. Hours after surgery, I was walking the hospital halls. Four days after the valve job, I was sent home. Ten days on, my cardiologist said that four—maybe five—weeks hence, I could expect to resume my daily morning runs.

Meanwhile, there was a lot of paperwork involved. Too many afternoon naps. Some bad jokes about male chauvinism now that my replacement part is the valve of a pig. But, all in all, it was just another episode in the continuing saga of advanced maturity.

The hairs have grown back, by the way. But don’t worry; nobody is going to see me in a swimming pool, much less a Speedo.