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Ouch!
Sara finally found a diversion. It seemed to happen quite naturally. A new animal shelter/rescue center opened a block away from the home she shared with Grissom. Sara stopped in on a whim and immediately felt at home. There were dogs and puppies everywhere, some in crates, some underfoot, and an assortment of other pets–hamsters, ferrets, birds, etc., in cages and on counters and perches around the big room. Sara fell into conversation with a friendly volunteer, and when she was asked if she'd like to give some of the dogs a walk from time to time, she instantly agreed.
Visiting the rescued dogs was a great way to relieve stress, get some exercise, have some laughs, and remind herself that some stories have happy endings. This was a no-kill shelter, so there wasn't the worry that her new furry pals had a death sentence looming over them. The dogs were so grateful for any kindness and attention, and so enthused about every venture on a leash, that it always gave her a smile.
"Got a new fella today," Eileen told Sara as she breezed in one afternoon. "A Rottweiler. He's a handful."
Sara bent over and greeted the newcomer in his crate. The big young dog leaped and scrabbled at the metal links in excitement.
"Careful," Eileen warned. "He doesn't know how strong he is. Owners were too old and frail to handle him."
Sara just smiled and got a leash. As she bent to slide open the crate door, the dog crashed through and sprang in the air. She stepped forward to try to control him and clip on his leash. The Rottie jumped on his hind legs and pushed off with his front legs. One large paw punched her hard in her right breast.
"Ouch! Ow! Dammit! Down, dog!" Sara yelled. That was really painful. Especially since her breasts were already tender from it being that time of the month. She finally grabbed the dog, got him leashed and he tore out of the building and down the street. He jumped and darted in all directions, got himself wrapped around every tree and sign, and half pulled Sara's arm out of its socket. Sara, frustrated, finally dragged him back to his crate, shoved him inside, and caught her breath.
"That's the last time I get you out," she muttered. "You weren't kidding," she told Eileen in a louder voice. "This boy needs to run. Work off some steam!"
Studiously avoiding the energetic Rottweiler for the rest of her visit, Sara played with a new litter of spaniel puppies until her good mood was restored.
Two days later, Sara and Grissom were lying in bed. It was their lovemaking time, two hours before shift and after a good night's sleep wrapped in each other's arms. Grissom began his careful, attentive, and erotic foreplay by running his large hands up and down Sara's lean naked body. From the tips of her toes to her fingertips and back, reveling in the expanse of smooth soft skin. Sara kissed him and explored his chest, shoulders, and back with her hands in turn.
Grissom rolled her over and cupped her right breast, teasing her nipple with his thumb and smiling at her reaction. He squeezed it lightly. She flinched. He froze.
"Sara."
"Hmm?" she said lazily.
"Sara," his voice was frightened. "What's this?"
"What?"
"It's a...I think it's..." he was afraid to say the word, to admit it was true. "It's a lump."
"Oh!" she gasped, leaning forward and examining her breast. Grissom guided her fingers to his discovery, and they traced the marble-sized lump and squeezed it gently.
The couple exchanged a scared look.
"I'll call my doctor." Her voice trembled.
Without further discussion, they got out of bed and dressed. Sara dug out her OB/GYN's number from her Rolodex and dialed the number.
"Shit." A recorded message told her to call back during office hours. It was late evening.
"What do we do?"
"Uh. Go to work. Call first thing in the morning," Sara decided, her mind racing.
So they did.
Sara was told to come in right away for an exam and a mammogram. Grissom went along and held her hand in the waiting room, with a worried expression. He stood and paced when Sara went back into the examining rooms. A series of images and words streamed unbidden through his mind. Biopsy. Surgery. Mastectomy. Chemo. Hair loss. Radiation. Nausea. Weight loss. Good lord, Sara didn't have any weight to lose! And to be sick–lose all that gorgeous chestnut hair–lose her smile–lose her energy and appetite-lose a breast, maybe both–even her life-it was alarming and painful to think about.
So he was startled to hear Sara's laugh–Sara's distinctive throaty smile-inducing laugh–floating through the wooden doors to the waiting room. There was another wait and then Sara flung open the door, strode to him, and gave him a big hug and a giant smile.
"Honey?" Grissom asked, puzzled.
"You'll never guess," she said, her voice light. "That lump is a bruise! The doctor saw some discoloration. Told me cancerous lumps usually don't hurt...and asked how I could have gotten a bruise there. A hematoma. I remembered that dog, that Rottweiler, that I told you about?"
Grissom nodded, still trying to figure out why she was so happy.
"Damn dog punched me in the boob. I'm fine. I'm fine!" she yelled. They laughed in relief, holding hands and practically skipping to the car.
