When I was nineteen, I went to my family doctor to ask him about any and everything that could possibly be wrong with me. I wanted a sort of general map of what to watch out for, physically. I went with some general questions.
First off, I wanted to know what the heck that pain was in my wrists and sometimes in my knees, the pain that made it impossible for me to do cartwheels or put any weight on my hands when my wrists were bent. That pain was really getting to me, and I wanted to know how to stop it. The doctor didn't know how to stop it, he wasn't even completely sure what was causing the problem. He took some blood, and told me he'd call me with the results. He didn't tell me what he was looking for. Turns out he was looking for Lyme's disease and rheumatoid arthritis. He didn't want to believe I had RA, so he sent something to get rid of the Lyme's disease. It turned out to be RA.
Secondly, there were these weird bumps on my knee that I wanted to go away. He gave me a prescription for an antibiotic, and away they went. (I was a bad antibiotic-taker back in the day, and I think they're still in the medicine cabinet here. I'll as around at work, but I'm pretty sure that tetracycline isn't good after seven years.)
Thirdly, I wasn't able to raise my arms above shoulder-level. Either one of them. He took a look at them, decided there was nothing he could do, and grudgingly sent me to the chiropractor. The chiropractor took one look at me and laid me down on the table. He put his hands on either side of my head, told me to relax, and snapped my head to the left. The noise was deafening. I think there were at least four places my neck popped. Then he told me to relax again, and snapped my head to the right. This time there were even more pops. I stood up off the table. He asked me how I felt. I lifted my arms above my head for the first time in three months, and nearly cried with relief.
I only mention this now because I need an effing chiropractor.