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Ellie is a bright and bubbly, yet dedicated new nurse in the Emergency Department at Chicago Medical Institute. Dr. Harry Styles, meticulous, hardworking, and driven, is the head of the department. Ellie's little q...
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I sat in Harry's car in the parking garage for a long time, trying to figure out what I was going to say or do when I went upstairs. I couldn't even understand why he would have been drinking today, of all days, since he just found out that Dr. Durand had been fired. He should have been celebrating. Or maybe that's how he celebrated, I didn't even know what to think anymore.
One one hand, I wanted to yell and scream at him for lying to me and for jeopardizing his career. On the other hand, I wanted to hold him and tell him I loved him and help him to work through whatever was so terrible that he felt he needed to start drinking again.
I would later be blindsided by the fact that he had never really stopped.
I entered the penthouse, listening for any sign of life. I was going to try my best to be understanding and supportive, but I'd be damned if I was going to make excuses for him. I shed my heavy coat and boots, and I went to grab a drink of water before I found Harry.
He was sound asleep in bed, looking very young and innocent with the way his hair was swept away from his face. Again, I wrestled with the right thing to do, let him sleep, or wake him so we could talk. From what I knew of Harry, he had probably already beaten himself up, so I decided to just listen first.
"Harry," I said, gently shaking his shoulder. "Wake up, babe."
He grunted and groaned a little, and then finally turned over to face me with tired eyes. "Hey," was all he said.
"So...you want to tell me what happened?" I asked in the most non-confrontational way I could.
"What's there to tell?" He said, rubbing his face. "A resident caught me. Dr. Kone gave me the official word that I was placed on leave until I completed a treatment program. She gave me three to choose from, and she also highly recommended that I join AA."
"How long is a treatment program?" I asked.
"She said we can evaluate my progress after thirty days, which is dependent on communication with the recovery clinic to make sure I've been attending the required sessions. In total, she wants me to complete a 90-day treatment plan. Ideally, I'd go back to work while still attending sessions so I can learn to manage my normal life without relapsing."
I was surprised that he sounded so calm and collected while telling me the details in such a matter of fact way. But even as I observed his quietude, he threw his arm over his eyes and let out an awful groan. "I'm so fucking stupid! Why did I let it get this far?" His voice had changed from tranquil to agitated. "They'll never look at me the same way again; they'll never take me seriously." He sat up suddenly and grabbed the nearest object, which happened to be his phone, and sent it sailing across the room. "How am I ever going to live this down?"
"Harry," I said, reaching for him, but he violently pulled his arm away and stood up.
"No! Don't tell me it'll be okay!" He shouted. "It won't fucking be okay! I screwed up my entire fucking career!" He pulled at his hair and then landed a solid punch against the door frame as he stormed out of the room.
