You go to bed on Saturday with a painful lump in your right armpit. It's not romantic, but there it is. A lump. A red lump. And it hurts. By Sunday night, you have a matching pain in your left armpit. By Monday morning, it hurts to move your arms, a difficult thing if you want to, say, shower, or eat, or get dressed, or even, for that matter, roll over in bed, something that you're champion at. You ignore these things until you can ignore them no more. You know they're just lymph nodes doing their cleaning thing, but you've got things to do and places to go, and you don't have time for infections right now. It's time to visit the doctor. As chance has it, your doctor is on holiday this week, but the Other Doctor has an opening, this very morning. Bully for you. The morning's visit includes a very slow computer, one urine sample, and two vials of blood. Of the three things, only the blood is elusive. The nurse stabs your arm ever-so-gently. She ...