Lobster has been having weird numbness and tingling in his left side, particularly his left arm and foot. (Don't worry. I think it's a pinched nerve caused by stress.) After about a week of the progressively intensifying pain, he decided to see a doctor who suspected a nerve issue (surprise) and referred him to a neurologist.

Lobster just called to tell me about his neurologist appointment. He said he was poked with needles about thirty times. Lobster hates needles and he was feeling very nervous and trying to calm down when he talked to me. He told me what the neurologist had discussed with him and that he wants to order an MRI and a deep tissue massage. Upon hearing all of this and knowing that Lobster was not looking forward to the prospect of being further poked and prodded, I should have done what I could to assuage his apprehension. Like a good girlfriend.

Should have.

What did I do instead? I began my crazy hippie tirade about how doctors are a bunch of drug pushing, surgery happy fiends who find every excuse to run every possible test under the sun before coming back (3 months later) with a diagnosis of a pinched nerve or a simple cold or (my favorite) "Hmmmm...we're not quite sure what's wrong with you."

Yes, I understand that doctors have to do everything they can to rule out conditions, etc. thereby covering their butts from lawsuits (I should know). But in the meantime, they do all of these tests, most of them unnecessary, and FREAK OUT the patient and their family who can only imagine the worst because why else would the doctor order a test like that?

And then I continue my psycho speech by singing the praises of chiropractors (truly, the good ones are miracle workers) and that Lobster should go see his chiropractor and have a few treatments before letting the slap happy neurologist do more wacko testing just to turn around and tell him that yes, in fact, you ARE normal and how strange that you don't have Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, leprosy and a small baby alien growing inside your belly.

Lobster, after listening very quietly and patiently like the good boyfriend that he is, says to me after I've finally paused to take a breath, "Well, now I'm all worked up again."

Sigh. Poor Lobster. Why does he put up with me?

I am an a$$.