Well, phooey. So there I was, two thirds of the way through a bowl of raisin bran yesterday morning, when I couldn’t swallow. Not that “hmmm, I wonder if something is going on” kind of discomfort. This was the real thing. The whole enchilada, so to speak. Serious pain. Food wouldn’t go down, but I didn’t want to jump up and spit it out, either. Even felt an incipient gurgle, sure sign that the drain is clogged. Bleh.
Well, the raisin bran did get down and the rest of breakfast was mercifully uneventful, though my chest was kind of sore for the rest of the day.
What am I going to do? Nothing for now, I think. Chances are, it’s not a one-off thing, which means it will likely be back before long. So I’m thinking of this only as strike one, but documenting it here so that I can’t brush it off. Denial’s a particular specialty of mine. Strike three, and it’s time to make a move.