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things changed in a split second. One moment I was at the top of the two steps that lead down to our bedroom—the next moment I was writhing in pain on the bedroom floor, having slipped down the steps and landed on my right ankle.
     
    When the pain began to subside, I pulled myself up on the bed and went straight to my laptop to research the only question on my mind: Was I going to have to go to the doctor? Medical appointments can be an ordeal for the chronically ill—the roundtrip drive, the possibility of a long wait, the energy it takes to effectively communicate with the doctor. It’s so much easier to have a caregiver along. When I go to the doctor, Tony drives me, stands in line to check in for me, and accompanies me to the examining room. I never schedule medical appointments during February.
     
    Despite the rapidly increasing swelling and discoloration on my ankle, my Internet research convinced me that I only needed to go to the doctor if I still couldn’t put weight on it in twenty-four hours. So I waited. And when I needed to go somewhere off the bed, I crawled. Our dog, Rusty, was delighted to see this. He acted like I’d finally seen the light and was joining his species. This appeared to be a cause for great celebration on his part, so my challenge became to make sure that in his exuberance he didn’t step on my right foot.
     
    That first day, as I lay in pain on the bed, I thought of the meteorologist’s comment to Dave the weather reader: “Dave, it’s random. We do our best.” Tony and I had indeed done our best to prepare for a calm February, but as we all discover again and again anything can happen at any time. We can take precautions, but predicting the future is as futile as predicting which way the wind will blow.
     
    The next morning, when I still couldn’t put weight on my right foot, our friend Richard took me to the doctor. Diagnosis: fractured fibula. The forecast: No weight bearing on it for several weeks; a cast so heavy that it took all my energy to move my leg; crutches and crawling to get around. I toughed it out for one more day. Even with people offering to help, the injury on top of the illness proved to be too much. One or the other I could have handled alone, but not both. I knew I needed to call Tony home when, before going to sleep for the night, it took me ten minutes to make the roundtrip to a bathroom that’s only footsteps from the bed. As I lay back on the bed in exhaustion, I realized that the light over the bathroom sink was still on—a light that shines right in my eyes. I had no choice but to start the process of getting to the bathroom all over again.
     
    So Tony came home four days into his treasured month-long retreat and, for a month, traded his caregiver role for that of nurse-maid. Life and the weather—one moment it’s calm and the next moment a nasty storm has blown in.
     
     
    Weather practice is a powerful reminder of the fleeting nature of experience, how each moment arises and passes as quickly as a weather pattern. A week after I fell, I went to see an orthopedic surgeon. My regular doctor arranged the consult in case I needed surgery to insert a plate and pins. A resident came in the examining room first. Looking at the x-rays, he said that, given the nature of the break and the damage to the ligaments, I might very well need surgery to stabilize the area. He left the room to report his findings to the orthopedic surgeon—and dark storm clouds gathered as Tony and I contemplated the effect on my illness if I had to go through surgery. Expecting heavy rain to accompany the surgeon into the room, he walked in and immediately said, “Surgery? No, no, no! The area is stable. You just need to stay off the ankle as long as it hurts and get physical therapy to regain your range of motion.” In a flash, the sun had burst through the clouds. Tony and I were elated.
     
    But a half-hour later, as I lay on the bed trying to nap, a cold dense fog