I couldn't make this up if I tried

My mother and I were sitting in the OR waiting room today, quietly reading and minding our own business in general. The situation was awkward enough without talking to anyone else, since those of us who were prepped for surgery were wearing hideous gowns and paper caps and had been swaddled in heated blankets (the hospital wisely keeps the waiting room at a fresh 58 degrees). We'd been waiting for about an hour, when in came a sixty-ish woman, similarly attired but with an enormous nimbus of hair that completely filled her paper cap. She plopped down in an upholstered chair and promptly inquired what the rest of us were "in for" - like one might do in prision. I demured; I'd been reading Emily Post's biography and felt sure that Emily would caution against sharing such information. The woman to my left was in for a bum knee. The man across the way remained silent, broodingly pulling at the too-short hem of his robe. Undaunted, the woman continued, "Well, I'm here to get my vagina cysts removed, and they ain't putting me to sleep, neither."