X is for X-ray.

You came with me because I asked, though you were certainly under no obligation to agree. Many months of x-rays, blood tests, and urine samples were taking their toll, and I wanted my hand held as I faced yet another pair of cold, clinical hands tapping into bruised veins. But you didn’t hold my hand, you sat in the waiting room just out of sight as the needle pierced my skin and the syringe slowly filled a deep burgundy. Sitting there, arm extended and head leaning back against the wall, I realized that I didn’t need you, that I could suffer this on my own. You bought me a beer afterwards, but you never came to the hospital with me again.