A Lament for Buffalo

Summary

The author reflects on the personal impact of the Buffalo shooting amidst a routine blood test, contrasting their own health concerns with the senseless violence targeting people of color.

Abstract

In "A Lament for Buffalo," the author juxtaposes the mundane experience of a medical appointment with the profound grief and shock following the recent shooting in Buffalo. As they wait for a blood draw to manage their thyroid condition, the author watches the President pay tribute to the victims and empathizes with the loss of a father who was simply buying a birthday cake. The narrative touches on the fear that such an event could happen anywhere, the shared humanity found in everyday interactions, and the stark realization that despite personal health struggles, the author does not face the threat of racially motivated violence. The pain of the needle prick pales in comparison to the suffering inflicted by the shooting, leading to a poignant reflection on privilege, community, and the repeated plea, "How long, O Lord?"

Opinions

The author expresses a deep sense of empathy and shared sorrow with the victims of the Buffalo shooting.
There is a palpable sense of frustration and helplessness conveyed through the repeated lament, "How long, O Lord?" questioning the persistence of such senseless violence.
The author acknowledges the randomness and proximity of potential danger, recognizing that the shooting could have happened in their own city.
A sense of relief is absent despite the shooting not occurring in the author's city, indicating a feeling of solidarity and a recognition of the broader societal issue.
The author draws a parallel between their own struggle with Hashimoto's thyroiditis and the far greater pain experienced by the victims and their families, highlighting a contrast in personal versus collective suffering.
The article suggests a sense of gratitude for the medical care the author receives, contrasting it with the irreversible loss experienced by those affected by the shooting.
The author reflects on the privilege of not having to fear violence due to the color of their skin, indicating an awareness of systemic racial issues.
A connection is made between the author and the phlebotomist through a conversation about family, emphasizing the importance of human connection and shared experiences in times of tragedy.

I cry out with you.

I sit in the waiting room of the lab across the street from my house. Soon a woman will poke me with a needle and fill a few tubes with my blood in order to find out how much thyroid hormone is circulating in my body.

The President and first lady are on TV. They stand somberly in front of a pile of flowers and heart balloons: heads bowed, hands folded, paying tribute to the victims of Saturday’s shooting. President Biden makes the sign of the cross. I sit somberly with them. How long, O Lord?

The news reporters say that one of the victims was at Tops to buy a birthday cake for his son. I think of the cake I made for my daughter’s 10th birthday last week. She always wants me to make it even though she doesn’t really like cake — a French Yogurt cake with stabilized whipped cream frosting, decorated with strawberries. I think of that boy whose daddy never came home with his birthday cake. How long, O Lord?

My husband drove Uber in Rochester the day of the shooting, dropping people off at grocery stores in majority black parts of our city. It could have been here, they say.

But it wasn’t here. Somehow I don’t feel relieved.

How long, O Lord?

I’m startled out of this solemn moment by a woman calling me back to the blood draw room. I wait while she puts my information into the computer. I see a picture of an adorable baby on the wall and try to muster the guts to strike up a conversation. I’m eager to shift my thoughts away from Buffalo. She yawns a big yawn and excuses herself with a laugh. That’s my in.

“Is that your baby?” I ask timidly.

“Yes, and that’s why I’m so tired!” she responds with a smile.

The ice has been broken and I ask her how she’s sleeping. While she gets ready to draw my blood we chat about co-sleeping, waking at the slightest noise, and moving babies to their own room. For this small moment, we share life together.

I hold back a wince when the needle goes in. I’m used to this now, going on five years since my diagnosis of Hashimoto’s thyroiditis. But this time it hurts more than usual and I tell her so. I immediately wish I hadn’t said anything. I don’t want her to think I’m insulting her skills as a phlebotomist. She says sometimes the needle hits a nerve, but that we’re almost done. We chat a little more about babies and sleep while she finishes collecting the blood and places a bandage on my tiny wound. On my way out of the room, I wish her a better night of sleep tonight. I wonder if I’ll see her next time I come in.

My arm still aches a little on the short walk home, but I’m grateful for this minor medical procedure that helps me to know if I’m on the right dose of thyroid medication. The right dose equals more energy, better mood, healthy skin and hair. The right dose equals a higher chance that I can cope with the demands of my life — demands that could be too much for a person not suffering from an autoimmune disease.

All that seems trivial now. My aching arm, punctured for my flourishing, reminds me unwittingly of the victims of the shooting and those whose lives are forever changed by this event. These were normal people — mothers, fathers, friends, sisters — at work, or out running errands, chatting about normal things like grand-babies and birthday cake, sharing life together.

I’ve been describing this past year as the most difficult of my life. And it has been. But you know what I don’t have to worry about? Being a target of senseless violence because of the color of my skin.

How long, O Lord?

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