When I first heard the number, my thoughts didn't immediately leap to "no way" or "whew." Instead, for a few seconds, all I could think of was that it was a prime number.
The surgery was as fine as a surgery can be, though getting there took 1:45 due to a monster accident on the Bay Bridge (luckily, to humor Jeff, we left 45 minutes early--he is a three-hours-before-the-flight kind of fellow--so we were only a half-hour late). Strangely, I still feel fine. I feel finer than fine; in fact, I feel great. I think the anesthesia has not completely worn off, as I was told to expect some "significant" swelling and pain. Because of the prime number, which obviously isn't four, recovery should be more difficult than last time.
Jeff bought me peaches and pluots and cherries, priced beyond rubies, at the nearby natural foods store. He also bought an apple pie, St. Ager blue cheese, good bread and the makings for a spectacular patty melt, which he will cook up for me tomorrow. Right now, a feast of spanikopita, babaghannouj, pita and lemon-chicken soup is before me on the bed, but I have to pee before I eat and can't get into the bathroom as the wonderful cleaning people are here, scrubbing the shower doors.
I could meander for some time, but I have a feeling that my grade-a prime sense of anesthetized well-being might translate to a gaseously windy post, and I realize I still haven't communicated the one solid piece of information I intended to tell you:
So, there it is.