Pretty day today. Last night was hot and ridiculous. I wanted to put the blessed air-conditioner on in January! That offends me on so many levels: economic, physical preference, and just plain common sense. It isn’t supposed to be hot in January. There’s something intrinsically wrong about sweating while you’re taking down Christmas decorations.

I couldn’t sleep, even though last night was a turning shift. I had to sleep last night so that I’d be back on day schedule for the dayjob tomorrow. Oops. That didn’t quite work out. I left the window open in the living room. (The only one I can leave open at night. If random chaotics can float effortlessly over counters, I am absolutely certain that they can climb second story balconies without breaking a sweat.) It was so lovely to feel the cold front moving in just before dawn broke, to switch from tank top, bare feet, and short skirt to sweater, long skirt and slippers.

I went to lunch. It was too cool and crisp (and yes, just a little lovely grey) for me to spend inside. Lunch seemed like a good idea. I gave Greta a call. She was having a good day today too. She’s been relatively symptom free for the holidays. The sneaky disease was kind at least in that.

Well, never let it be said that my life isn’t filled with irony. I felt the first pain as I got out of the car at the restaurant. Not the capital P type pain, but pain nonetheless. Nasty little internal twist. Something new for me. I never met this particular one before.

Greta waves. She’s at the door. The pain ebbs. It was only a few seconds. Musta been some pressure somewhere just working itself out. Maybe a muscle or something. No big deal. I smile and wave back.

Nice table, second story, we’re looking out into trees. I like that. We look at menus. I’m trying to decide just how decadent I’m going to be when I feel it again. Central chest, behind the sternum. This time it’s sharper.

Greta says the fettucini alfredo is really good here. I hold the menu out it both hands, checking, I hope discretely – Do my arms feel all right? Yes, they’re fine. No pain in either arm. Mental sigh. Okay. Ignore it. Move on. It will pass. Seconds later it does.

I decide on an entrée salad. Greta is disappointed. The fettucini is not to be missed. I beg off, telling her it’s a New Year’s Resolution, healthier food for me. She buys it and relents.

I enjoy Greta’s company. She’s incredibly unself-conscious, loud and completely uncensored in her conversation. She has the dirtiest mind of anyone I know, male or female. No one else tells me the sort of jokes she lives to repeat to me. I like to think it’s because I conduct myself with a certain amount of decorum. I’m not a prude, I just think some things are not for public conversation. Greta’s basic attitude is – Screw decorum, did you hear the one about the guy with three testicles? It’s my personal opinion, which I have, of course, shared with her, that her nature, not to mention her skeletal structure, has been permanently warped by the fact that she has (this is impossible to put any more delicately) the largest non-silicone based breasts in seven states. She says she admires my perceptiveness about such things.

The conversation rolls as we wait for the food. Greta defers to my preferences in volume and I follow her into the exploration of topics I do not usually voice an opinion upon. (Dinner at Greta’s house is a full volume tag team affair with her husband. Tony confessed to me once that they place bets on who’ll make me blush first and there are (unrepeatable) prizes for the winner.) Spending time with Greta can be exhausting, rapid-fire, sometimes stream of consciousness witfests, but I usually hold up my end of the conversation.

I don’t feel it again until the food comes. It happens with the first sip of my drink. Sharpest yet. I pretend to take a longer drink to cover the lapse in conversation. Greta doesn’t notice. That’s important to me. This thing, whatever it is, is not a heart attack, so I’ll be okay. That’s the first thing I would think of, given Mom’s history. Immediate reaction to chest pain is the fear of heart attack, but my arms are fine, so we’re not dealing with a coronary here. It’s the same thing with my hands. Anytime I get an ache, the word arthritis jumps to the fore, not carpal tunnel, not fatigue, and I begin to wonder, osteo or rhuematiod? Mom’s legacy.

It passes, but now it’s established itself, laid down the ground rules. It comes and goes at irregular intervals, no matter what I do, but swallowing anything will cause it to manifest itself at its worst. Luckily, Greta is in rare form today, and quite content to carry the conversation. Many people think I’m a really good listener, and people like good listeners. I’m not such a good listener today, but I am a grand pretender, and I work hard at that little smile on my face that says I’m with you even when I’m not.

The pain is pretty rancid, but analyzable. Taking things apart sometimes helps you endure, so I analyze. It’s right there, center chest. I think hard, trying to reason out the anatomy I never studied. The pain starts dull, then rapidly intensifies, then falls off slowly. At the worst, it’s like closing my hand on a large sharp rock and squeezing until the blood runs.

I don’t eat much even though I’m terribly hungry and the salad tastes painfully delicious. I cut smaller and smaller pieces with my fork, seeing how much I can reduce the visible volume in between tiny infrequent bites. When Greta finally notices, I lie. I’m trying to lose weight, actually, I say. She buys that one. Everyone’s trying to lose weight, especially now.

By the time lunch is over and the bill paid for food uneaten, I come to the conclusion it has to be muscular. Layman’s diagnosis, I decide it’s got to be my esophagus. It’s going through some sort of series of spasms and eating triggers it even worse. I wonder if this is a stress thing.

(When I was in college, the infirmary had only two diagnoses available for anyone who walked through the door. You either had V.D. or mono. That’s how I once had what was probably food poisoning diagnosed by an actual M.D. as intestinal mononucleosis. Esophageal spasms in this case make a heck of lot more sense than intenstinal mononucleosis did in that one.)