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Married People Live Longer 263 sometimes slips and calls him “Kaplan.” There is and always will be the race issue—the raised eyebrows on both sides of the color line, the people who question our ethnic loyalty and politics. This is no surprise, especially considering the ethnic rancor that brought us together in the first place. We understand the questions others may have about our relationship, and we often raise them ourselves. The concerns we each had about race before we met remain firmly in place, perhaps even more firmly than before. We do not want to be poster children for interracial marriage or the latest diversity campaign. Love for us is a triumph not of integration but of imagination, the wild-­ card coupling of a pair of resolutely lonely hearts who chose to navigate the same rough, but potentially magical course. Married People Live Longer than Single People 2009 I find out my husband Alan has cancer the day before I’m supposed to fly to South Africa. I have never been there and haven’t been off the continent for a while. This is not an official diagnosis, though it will become one. It’s a very educated guess by the ear, nose, and throat doctor, Dr. Smith, a black woman with a Caribbean accent, elaborate braids, and a bright, confident manner. The confidence flashes a sharp edge at moments, like a knife under a noonday sun, and I think that Dr. Smith is a woman who needs everything in place. She likes order and precision. She probably goes to church and has no ambivalence about making life and death pronouncements. I envy her more than a little. Dr. Smith is tracing the cloudy gray mass on a screen in front of us with her index finger, the results of Alan’s ct scan. “It’s about six centimeters,” 264 Post Script she says. She sounds almost happy, like she’s describing a fetus. “I can’t say for sure, but if I had to give you my three best guesses, they would be cancer , cancer, and cancer.” What would be your fourth guess? I want to ask. I don’t. Alan looks pale in the hyper-­ fluorescent glow of the screen that in the darkened office looks like a crystal ball. He’d found a lump in his neck two weeks before and thought it was a swollen gland; I’d felt it and thought it was too hard for a gland and must be something else, though not something serious—a hardened gland. Wasn’t there such a thing? Dr. Smith continues in the same energetic tone. “The prognosis for this, if it is carcinoma in the third stage, is about five years. That’s not counting radiation and chemo. Married people survive longer than single people.” She smiles. “You must think positive and stay strong.” I want to raise my hand and say immediately that I must be recused. I am not known for being positive thinker, even in good circumstances, that I’ve been clinically depressed in the past over meaningless bullshit—a broken necklace clasp, an uncooperative computer. Alan is going to have to apply elsewhere for a wife and/or positive thinker, at least for a while. Instead, I fold my arms and nod like I’m a doctor myself. Uh-­ huh. I say I’m supposed to go to Africa in the morning, wonderingly, like I think this non-­ diagnosis and the date of my trip is a funny coincidence. I say it like I’m at a party and the conversation has momentarily turned a little somber—nothing a mixed drink and a good dance single can’t remedy. Dr. Smith’s smile tightens. “But you’re not going, no,” she says. “I wouldn’t go. This is not settled. It’s just starting. He will need more tests. I’m sure your travel companions will understand.” She smiles again. We wait to hear, Don’t worry, we don’t know for sure, don’t think anything yet. Dr. Smith is a believer. She isn’t going to waver from what she thinks—what she knows—is truth. I don’t go. I make my apologies to the health foundation sponsoring the trip. Of course its people understand; it’s a health foundation, after all. Its whole purpose is to expose media to the ravages of disease in various parts of the world; I don’t need to do that...

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