My roommate, Mary Beth, and I were planning on moving into a new apartment the first Saturday of 2014. In preparation for it, we started packing mid-December. During this packing phase, Mary Beth ended up with some muscle pain; we figured she had pulled something. The muscle pain got worse (and moved places) over the Christmas holidays, and by the time I came back from visiting family, she had also developed a cough. She hadn’t gotten all of her packing done by the Friday night before our move, but she promised she would get up early Saturday morning so everything would be ready when our families and the U-Haul arrived.
I heard Mary Beth get up a little before eight. And then I heard a clatter and her groaning in pain. I found her curled up on the floor in front of the bathroom. This is not so uncommon an occurrence that I was unduly alarmed, but I helped her to sit up and got her some water.
I figured she might have the flu. I knew she was probably going to be useless re: packing and moving for the next couple of hours, so I started plotting how to handle this wrench in our schedule.
And then Mary Beth asked, “Is my foot swollen?”
That is not the flu or a pulled muscle, I thought. “Let’s get you to the urgent care,” I said.