My mysteriously swollen neck mysteriously deflated in late December and early January. The doctors never figured out what exactly was wrong, though they did notice a lovely case of lymphodema in my left arm. Well, duh, thanks for the newsflash.

Any activity more vigorous than typing is likely to make my arm swell. The more prolonged the activity, the more swelling. Just for fun, flying also causes swelling. The solution is a compression sleeve. Not one of the flashy ones that basketball player wear, but an actual medical version. Translation: it costs $90 instead of $20.

Nearly 10 days ago, Matt and I wasted a week of perfectly good vacation days to move all of our belongings out of the rental house and into our garage. Because we just had to move everything across the street, we naively decided to do it ourselves. However, due to scaffolding and other construction detritus, across the street became down the street, around a 180 degree curve, and down a steep hill.

My left arm and hand started to swell on Thursday, and on went the sleeve. The sleeve stayed on all night and all day Friday, as the swelling increased and increased. By early Friday evening, I could barely bend my fingers or elbows.

Puff, the magic hand, dangled from my arm. And wallowed in the extra lymph that wouldn't move along.

Poking any spot was incredibly painful, while at the same time, my entire arm was cold and tingly. Not just cold to me, but cold to the touch. Oh, and my fingers were starting to turn purple. Time to call the on call doctor!

I described my symptoms over the phone, and the doctor sent me to the emergency room. No big surprise there.

I told the doctor that I was suffering from a lovely case of lymphodema. The doctor decided to be all responsible and not immediately believe me. A vascular technician was called in to scan my veins and arteries for possible blood clots, which would explain the cold tingliness.

The ultrasound showed no problems with blood flow, though that wasn't good enough. The next step was a CT scan of my lungs, as a blood clot there could cause my symptoms. In order to inject the IV contrast, my right arm, which was feeling a bit neglected, received an IV.

Anyone who has spent as much time as me getting imaging done knows the drill. Lie perfectly still for the first round of zapping, get dosed with contrast, and remain in the exact same position for the second round of zapping. The whole not moving thing is incredibly important to get good results. That's why, when the IV detached during the contrast diffusion, I didn't move. My heart, on the other hand, kept pumping blood. SQUIRT! SQUIRT!

It turned out that the little screw that attaches the line to the plastic tube inside the vein wasn't screwed in all the way. When the pressurizing by the contrast injecting machine, it came completely apart. Thankfully, the contrast was clear. Regrettably, my arms were above my head so all the blood and contrast were soaked up by my hair.

Once the mess was cleaned up, the whole imaging process had to start over. All in all, a ten minute study took the better part of an hour. Matt was worried about what might have happened to me, then confused as to why my hospital gown magically changed from green to blue.

After all of that, around four in the morning, the doctor declared me to have lymphodema and sent me home with instructions to see my doctor. Apparently my worries about a giant needle being used to drain my arm were unfounded; lymph swells every cell individually, and a giant needle would be very imprecise to drain them individually.

Matt and I innocently went on a trip to Puerto Rico, leaving the Mutt Brigade for a week at doggie day care. Everything seemed normal upon our return. Then, the next morning, I asked Matt, "What the hell are these little black things all over the dining room table?" "I have no idea."

After finding a few more near the kitchen garbage can, it suddenly dawned on me: the creepy chocolate sprinkles were actually MOUSE POOP! Screaming commenced.

I ended up taking a mental health day from work, during which I altered between furious cleaning and passing out due to anxiety medicine. In the mean time, Matt was slightly more productive and called the rental agency. A pest control guy would be there on Monday. By my count, that was three days away, so I'd have to do something about the poop myself. Not cool.

After dinner, I decided that it was time to clean the kitchen. I was not going to sleep in a house with mouse poop. And I was definitely not going to clean mouse poop without gloves. Luckily, I found a pair of latex dish gloves. Unluckily, the poop gnomes didn't magic away the poop, so I started in the kitchen by following a trail of poop that trailed behind the microwave. I shoved the microwave out of the way and SKRIEEEEEEEEKKKK!

For five seconds we just stared at each other, while I alerted the entire world that I found the mouse. Eventually the mouse had enough and ran behind the fridge. Matt, suspecting that something interesting was happening, came running in. He pulled the fridge away from the wall, and I peeked in.

The mouse, holding himself up between the fridge and the wall.

"Now what?" "I guess we pull the fridge out farther." Another inch or two and the mouse fell. Wasting no time, he darted under the fridge.

There was barely an inch of clearance, and certainly not enough room to shove a broom underneath. The evil defiler of homes was safe from my broom. But not for long.

Matt emptied all the beer from the fridge, while I kept watch for escaping rodents. Then, he carefully tilted the fridge forward and VROOM the mouse ran across the kitchen towards the dining room. Not that we had a particularly good plan to catch him, but really? Did he have to make this any harder?

I bolted after him, via the living room, hoping to cut him off. Matt took the direct route through the dining room. The mouse took up residence underneath the liquor cabinet. This time there was enough space to look underneath, but I couldn't see anything. Even after tilting it, no mice appeared.

Okay, fine then. We starting searching around the boxes in the dining room and the living room. Still no mouse, just more mouse poop. Ew. Well, back to the last confirmed location.

Once again, Matt tipped the cabinet. This time the mouse bolted. We chased him across the living room, back through the kitchen, and into the the dining room. Instead of hiding underneath furniture, the mouse took the opposite route and climbed up a dining room chair. He calmly remained perched on the top of the back rest, while I fetched my broom and a plastic bin with a lid.

I snuck up on one side with my broom, while Matt approached with the plastic bin. Once close enough, I bonked him with the bristle end, causing him to half fall and half jump into the bin. Matt slammed the lid down and locked it.

I guess the situation improved, but now what on earth do we do with a mouse in a plastic bin? Why, name him, of course! I'd like to introduce Maurice Mouss, named after Maurice Moss from The I.T. Crowd.

He even looks like a Maurice.