She nodded, her look sympathetic. “But don’t quit, okay?”
I bristled.Please don’t try to convince me to stay. I can’t.
“Take a medical leave,” she said. “Get a doctor’s note saying you’re suffering with mental health issues and need a leave from work to recover. Take a couple months off, fully paid, and then decide what you want to do with a clearer head. I don’t want you to have to worry about money while you’re going through so much already, okay?”
I nodded, not sure what to say. I’d heard of a person here and there taking a medical leave of absence from Peters & Dowling, but it was always very hush-hush. Gratitude and relief washed through me. A tear slipped down my cheek before my hand shot up to wipe it away. “Okay,” I said. “What do I need to do?”
For the next twenty minutes, Mallory walked me through all the steps of setting up the medical leave. First, contact HR and ask for the paperwork for my doctor; second, talk to the firm’s insurance company; and third, go see my doctor and have them put a mental health diagnosis code, a medical leave start date, and proposed return-to-work date into a form for the insurance company, and sign it.
“And legally, your job is protected. It will be waiting for you at the end of the leave, okay?”
“Thank you, Mallory. Seriously.”
“Of course. You’re smart and talented, Val. But you’re also human. Take care of yourself.”
I smiled at her on my way out and kept my head down until I reached the privacy of my office. I emailed HR immediately.
By Friday morning, I had transitioned all of my deals to colleagues and submitted glowing performance reviews for my junior associates, and HR had informed all of the partners I’d be on a leave of absence effective Saturday. The guilt I felt for saddling other associates with my work was suffocating, but I couldn’t change my mind. I thought maybe John would reach out after HR notified him, but he didn’t. It was a relief, I supposed.
On Friday afternoon, I set up an auto-reply message to send every time I got an email and packed up every personal item from my office to take home with me, even though I told myself it wasn’t necessary. I’d be back here after I got my strength back. And thanks to the anxiety diagnosis from my doctor and the paperwork she filled out, I had three and a half months to do just that.
Later that evening, I walked to my apartment with a backpack and three tote bags hanging from my body and cortisol coursing through my veins, feeling like a complete failure.
That night I crawled into bed at 8:00 and didn’t stir until 8:00 the next morning. The next few nights were the same: twelve or thirteen hours of sleep and still it wasn’t enough to combat the bone-deep exhaustion.
By Monday, I mustered enough energy to leave my apartment. After I put in a load of laundry, I went to the grocery store and bought produce instead of frozen meals.
What did I do?I asked myself when I got home from the store, bracing on the kitchen counter.Did I throw it all away?All those years of hard work. My arms tingled and my heart rate quickened.
Deep breaths.
It’s okay.
This is only a blip.
You just needed a break.
Your job is protected.
You’ll get back on track.
I slumped to the tile floor, leaning against the lower kitchen cabinets, glad I didn’t check the time before I did it, so I wouldn’t know how long I sat there like that.
“I know you’re a grown woman in your thirties and coming home to your parents’ house in suburban New Hampshire is not very appealing, but I think you need a change of scenery. We can go for walks, and I’ll cook healthy meals, and you can read and relax and get away from it all.”
I lay on my back on my bed, phone pressed against my ear. The streetlights cast my room in a bluish glow.
My mother was right, of course. I’d never lived in NYC and been anything besides a Peters & Dowling associate. In the last week I’d started going to the gym in my building and cooking and sleeping more, but I didn’t know what to do with myself here anymore. My desk, my couch, even my coffee machine reminded me of work.
“Okay,” I replied.
“Okay?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am. I’m thrilled, but I’m surprised. You’ve never once taken me up on moving home and taking a break. Not since you left for college.”
“I know.”Because it would have felt like admitting defeat.
