In Treatment

This is Rosie's bag

and I got her this small thing.

That's sweet. Thanks, Paul.

Well, I have to get back.

I don't feel comfortable leaving those kids alone. They never stop fighting.

Wonder where they learned that from.

- Alright then. - No, let me get it.

- Where's the car? - It's just over here.

Listen, Paul,

I'm really so sorry about your father.

I know I've already said that, but...

I really appreciate that you came to the funeral.

I really do.

And that you let the kids come for that weekend.

It was great.

They didn't drive you crazy?

No, it felt good to be with them,? Like things are supposed to be.

They wanted to be there. They're good kids, you know?

And you were good to me too, Kate.

We felt like a family.

I felt it too.

It's just unfortunate that it took such a sad situation...

That's what I wanted to say, Kate.

I want us to try it again.

You know, being a family.

I miss you, Kate.

I want to come home.

I love you, Kate.

I think we should give ourselves another chance.

I know the kids want us to do it.

So do I.

I'm seeing somebody.

I might be in love with him. I don't know.

I can't do this again. I just can't.

And I'm so sorry.

How are you?

I'm okay, thanks.

Would you like some tea or some water?

Water'll be fine. Thanks.

Thanks for the orchid that you sent. It was beautiful.

I'm glad you liked it.

I've been thinking about you.

It's a pity you weren't there.

I didn't think it was my place to be there.

Yeah, well, it was a nice service...

Except for the priest's cell phone going off.

My kids spoke.

They each had...

a memory to tell.

And some people from the nursing home came.

They talked about his card playing and his singing.

- Did he sing when you were a boy? - Not that I remember.

But one of the surgical nurses said that,

you know, he used to sing in the operating room.

"A fine Irish tenor," she said he was.

Of course, there was a lot of women at the funeral.

Women really liked my dad, as you know.

Then too, women live longer than men

so when you get to a certain age,

there are always going to be more women at funerals.

You know what I've decided? Women are really good at loss.

Men don't really... They haven't got a fucking clue.

Did you get to speak to your father before he died?

You know, for men...

loss is... It's a defeat.

In a game or a fight,

losing makes you mad. You want to get even with the guy.

Like this man who's suing me, Alex's father.

This guy is so angry

that all he can think of is coming after me.

Like that's gonna help.

Are you trying to understand how to grieve for your father?

Among other things.

What other things?

One of the things I'm trying to understand

is how I can help my patients with death and dying

when I myself have been so stupid

and so wrong about it.

You know, Paul, it hasn't even been two weeks.

You won't always feel this raw.

We'll see.

Can you tell me more about the funeral?

I don't wanna talk about your patients now

when you've just been through this.

Do you not think it's important for me to talk about my patients?

How am I going to help my patients if my own life is in a mess?

Would you use a plumber if you found out

all the drains in his house were blocked?

It's not the same thing.

You're a trained psychotherapist.

But not a trained husband, father or son.

No, you're not.

As a man, you're like an animal in the wild.

You're living day to day,

you're trying to protect your territory and provide for your family.

As a therapist,

you're observing certain members of the herd through binoculars.

These are two very different ways of experiencing life.

But you can't observe yourself through your own binoculars.

But that's why I'm here.

Right.

Can you tell me more about the funeral?

Not this week, please. I feel like...

- I feel pretty wiped out. - We don't have to talk about it.

But I'm interested.

You said you were glad that your children were there.

Yeah, I was glad that the boys were there.

Maybe they won't be as stupid as I was about it all.

Stupid?

I learned more about my father at his funeral

than I ever did when he was alive.

- Doesn't that sound stupid to you? - What did you learn about him?

Well, for one thing,

I found out that he did a lot of free surgery in Bolivia.

- You didn't know that about him? - No, of course didn't.

And he made me executor of his estate.

Does that surprise you?

And he gave me his half of a little brewery in Minnesota.

He owned a brewery in Minnesota?

With one of his doctor friends. I guess he loaned some guy

some start-up money 40 years ago.

So if the lawsuit ends up costing me my license,

I guess I can always go make beer.

You see what I'm talking about?

Who was this man?

All I knew was this old story that I've told you.

That he left us for a patient, my mother killed herself and I grew up alone.

- All these things are still true? - How the fuck would I know?

If my father was this great guy,

why didn't I know it?

Are you beginning to think he was a great guy?

Even if he wasn't great, at least he was interesting.

But what was I? Was I blind?

People often can be very successful in the outside world

and remain a complete mystery to their families.

Mystery is putting it mildly, Gina.

I don't think he was a complete mystery to you, Paul.

I think as a boy, even though you didn't have all the facts,

you knew he was an interesting man.

That's why you were mad that he was never home.

Maybe you wanted to live with him instead of your mother.

- Well, who wouldn't? - It wasn't your choice.

Paul, he was the only one with a choice in your family.

He chose his work, his investments,

his women.

That hurt you.

I wasn't hurt. I just hated the son of a bitch.

I think the hatred grew

so you could protect yourself from his rejection.

I don't think you always hated him.

You think I loved him?

I'm saying it wasn't stupid of you

not to know about these things.

I mean, maybe he didn't want to call attention to his charity work.

Or maybe he thought his singing was silly or the brewery was frivolous.

Or maybe he wasn't home enough to have any conversation about anything

or maybe by the time he got ready to talk, I didn't give a shit.

All these things are possible.

Death leaves a lot of unanswered questions.

You know, not everybody has what it takes to be a good parent.

And sometimes, as in your father's case,

the choices can be very difficult.

Do you give yourself over to your sick wife and angry children

and fight a losing battle?

Or do you give yourself

to your talent and hope that someday they'll understand?

So you're saying his home life was a losing battle for him?

I'm saying that he looked at his options

and he fought the battle he thought he could win.

A less charitable view would be that he won the battle he chose to fight.

That's true.

So it wasn't stupid of me to not know who my father was when I was a boy.

It was stupid that I got

to be this old and still didn't know who he was.

Even sitting there at the bedside in the nursing home...

He had maybe five minutes to live.

And for the first time it was just me and him together.

Sickness until death, and all that.

The only person

I learned anything about was me.

I'm glad you saw him before he died.

It was the strangest thing, you know?

Everybody left and...

I went downstairs and said goodbye to them...

Got a coffee and I came back and he was...

He was asleep.

Well, he had a pulse anyway.

And I sat down and I started talking to him and...

And he didn't have a pulse anymore.