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She nodded, then explained that she could "shave" away the moles on the back of my neck right then and there, but that the "suspect" mole on my ass would have to be cut out, along with some surrounding flesh, "just in case" the cells proved to be cancerous. I'd have to come back the following week for the procedure.

"Now," added the doctor, in a tone more serious than she had used thus far, "there is one thing." I looked at her helplessly. "There will be a scar from the stitches. Are you okay with that?"

I didn't mean to laugh as hard as I did. Perhaps it was my need to relieve stress, or maybe it was merely the idea that I would actually be concerned about a small scar in one of the few places on my body that never sees the light of day.

"I'm sorry," I said through tapering giggles, "but the last thing I care about is a scar on my ass ."

"Well, because of the location, a G-string would probably cover the scar," she said with a straight face.

"Are you kidding?" She was impossible to read. "Don't worry about it. I'm not planning on posing for Playboy for at least another year."

It didn't take long for her to remove the moles on my neck, and soon I was on my way home. As I drove, my mind wandered to the miserable land of "What ifs." I didn't want to give in to the cold panic pumping wildly through my veins. But I had no more stories. Now all I could do was wait. One more week. And even longer than that for the results of the biopsy.

My mind was racing and my breath was coming faster and faster, so I did the one thing I could think of that might put me at ease, and grabbed my cell phone: "Hi, Mom. Okay, here's the update..."

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