Better safe than sorry, I suppose

I had a biopsy on Saturday.

Yes, you read that correctly.

I suppose I should be freaking out more, but I'm really not. I was at a dermatologist for another issue -- also not major -- when he saw a mole on my left triceps that not a correct color.

He told me they were going to do a biopsy -- just to be on the safe side -- the same way you would tell someone chicken was on sale at the local Meijer or that the Cubs suck.

Local anesthetic, check ... 6 mm dermal punch to take a notch out of my arm, check ... couple of stitches with 4-0 silk, check ... I'll know what's going on around Aug. 1.

Cancer, unfortunately, runs in my family. My mother, 82 in September, beat it twice -- including growths that resulted in the loss of her larynx and vocal cords. My aunt, Rose, lost a four-year battle with intestinal cancer in 1984.

In 1949, my grandfather on Dad's side, died of stomach cancer at either 63 or 64 when that kind of diagnosis was a death sentence. Sad to say, unless a certain member of my family cuts down or quits smoking, she's on her way to a lung cancer diagnosis for sure.

For now, though, it's just a time to wait. When I know, you all will know.