The sharp jolt of pain to the right of my breastbone lasted a few seconds, long enough to get my attention. Any ache or pain in my chest gives me pause. Heart problems run in my family. So does denial.
Three times those jabs froze me that hot July evening as I scraped and washed the dinner dishes and the messy pots — the remains of the jambalaya for a special family meal. Both of my stepsons and their girlfriends had joined us that night.
I didn’t want to ignore a warning sign and drop dead at 49 — just as I might be getting the hang of this life — nor did I want to race off to the ER, ruining precious family time over nothing.
Sitting at the table with the kids was nice, of course. Always. Yet, that had not offered much physical relief.
Mid-summer’s heat and humidity were oppressive, and the kitchen was steamy. I’d stood for hours chopping vegetables, peeling shrimp, stirring tomatoes and peppers into our biggest, heaviest cast iron skillet. The whole house had cooked all day in the scorching sun.
I told my husband. We watched for any other symptoms. I could breathe comfortably, so we finished cleaning up. The pains were short and stopped before bedtime.
Ignoring pain, I’d learned from my father and his family, is dangerous.
So what was the message of this pain?
