In Treatment (2008–2010): Season 2, Episode 25 - Gina: Week Five - full transcript

I hate my life.
Everyday... it hurts.

I'm not getting anything from my family,
so I try to get it from my patients.

- Who else do I have?
- Have you seen your father?

My father can't help me now.

We both know what it's like
not to be there at the end.

It's something you don't get over.

Ever.

Dad...

- Your father died?
- It's OK, he's been sick for a while.

What are you talking, a while?

You should not be working this week.
You're not even in the room!



- Why did you look at your watch?
- It's my father's watch.

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,{\ you know}?
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 {\you ever hear him}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

{\that }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 {\your }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.

- You were talking to him when he died?
- I was talking at him, Gina.

I said...

I'm sorry and...

I said I was sorry
that I hadn't seen more of him.

I asked him if I could get him
anything and...

Then I just started
complaining about my life...

Like I always do.

I looked up and he was...

He was gone.

Did it feel to you like he'd been
waiting for you to come back

to see him before he died?

No.
That's what the nurses say, but...

They say {\that }it happens a lot,
but I don't believe it.

- I think it's crazy.
- No, not really.

On some unconscious level
he might have known it was you.

Or sensed it.

No, he didn't.

Didn't you ever become
suddenly aware

of your children
without them having said anything?

With Max, I remember when he used
to wake up in the middle of the night,

he would come into my room
and I would just wake up.

And there he would be standing
at the end of the bed, just...

staring silently at me.

So even though Max hadn't said a thing,
you woke up.

Yeah, great.

So my father becomes aware of me
on some level

and he really doesn't want to listen
to me complain so he just dies.

Or he becomes aware of you
on some level,

and he's finally able to let go.

I'd like to believe your version.

Do you believe it?

Or are you just saying it
to make me feel better?

Do I believe that there's
some non-scientific connection

between a parent and child?

Absolutely.

Does that mean that a parent
knows what a child needs?

No, it just means
there's a connection.

No, we're more than connected.

There's obligations
between parents and children.

There are things that they owe us
and there are things that we owe them.

Yes, but, you know, I think obligation
is maybe a subject for another day.

No, I want to talk
about obligation today.

My father owed me things...

And he didn't come through for me.

And I owed him things
and I didn't come through for him.

If I'm not gonna do any better
by my kids

and they're not gonna come
and see me till I'm about to die,

then we are all hopelessly screwed.

Is that your father's watch?

- You don't want to talk about this?
- No.

I don't want to talk
about anything in general.

I don't want to talk
about obligations or family duty.

I want to talk
about you and your father.

This is his watch.

I'm gonna wear it for a bit.

I don't usually wear watches.

But I'll wear this for a while.

Because
it's a pathetic excuse for...

For grieving.

There it is.

What did you mean when you said

the only person you learned
anything about that day was you?

I felt like I was in a movie
I was watching.

Self-centered guy goes to the hospital
to see his dying father,

sits down, can't think
of anything to say to his dad.

Then he starts whining
about his own little problems.

A divorce, the fear of losing touch
with his children,

a move to a new city, the threat
to the man's work from a lawsuit.

They don't sound so little
when you actually say them.

These are big problems
to somebody in the middle of their life.

But to someone confronting death,
like the father,

it might seem that the son
could work these problems out.

The dying father doesn't have the time,
but the son does.

No marriage, no children,

no practice, just time.

Without the time,
you don't have any of the other things.

I guess.

No, it's not a guess.
It's true.

Time's the precious thing.
You already know that.

That's why you're wearing his watch.

Maybe you were telling him
your problems

because you were hoping
he'd say something meaningful to you.

- Or finally be a father to you.
- I don't know.

But after he was gone I wished
the whining guy in the movie

could have been some kind
of comfort to his father.

I wished I had...

done or said something more
than just take the man's watch.

Is there anything you wished
you had asked him before he was gone?

I wanted to ask him if...

- If he was proud of me.
- But you know he was.

- Do I?
- You're a good doctor to your patients.

You're a good father
to your children.

And you love singing.

- I'm a terrible singer, Gina.
- I didn't say you were a good singer.

I said you liked singing.

I should have gone earlier.

I know that.

Guess I was afraid.

Once I was there I thought,
"What the hell was I afraid of?

"My father is dying.
What can he possibly do to me?"

Do you know what you were afraid of?

I was afraid that after a lifetime
of hating him...

He was gonna love me anyway.

And I think

I waited till he couldn't talk anymore
because...

I just didn't want
to hear him say it.

- Why would that have been so bad?
- Because if he could love me

and not give me
one minute of his time...

Then love doesn't mean a thing
and I don't want it.

You can't intellectualize it.

It's something we feel,

sometimes with good reason,
sometimes not.

You know, I was a pallbearer

and... so was Ian.

And as we came out of the church

and carried the coffin
to the churchyard,

I looked over at him and I thought,

"One day he's gonna carry me...

"If I'm lucky enough
not to mess it up."

You won't mess it up.

How can you be so sure?

Because you already know

that love is the only thing
that has a chance against death.

It causes us a lot of pain,
but without it,

we feel isolated, untethered,
lost in space.

So...

My father...

loved me.

And he did what he could.

No. Your father loved you
and he did what he did.

And you loved him and you hated him
because he ignored you.

It's not pretty.

Is it?

I wish you could have had
the father you deserved.

But maybe you can be
a father to yourself now

and do for yourself
what you do for your boys.

Did you have the father
that you needed?

I'm a therapist! What do you think?

I gotta go.

I've got to meet

Alex's father.

Maybe there's some way I can help.

Thank you, Gina.

Sorry.
Sorry I'm late.

I'm sorry I have to see you at all,
so we're even.

Well, I wouldn't think
that makes us even.

Neither do I.

Are you having coffee?

With you?

No coffee.

- Can you give us a minute?
- I'm only meeting you here

because I didn't wanna stand
when I talked to you.

- You could have called.
- And I didn't come{\ here} for you to be cute.

So just shut up and listen,
then I'll go and this'll be over.

I looked at the evidence.
I read the documents.

My lawyer tells me

it could take two years watching you
fight this and try to get away with it.

Why should I do that,
waste two years fighting with you?

I'm gonna drop the case.

You're gonna drop the case?

I'll take the settlement money

that your insurance company
is offering.

I'll drop the case.

Providing...

Providing what?

You write a letter of apology
accepting full responsibility

for the death of my son.

- What would you do with{\ a letter like that} this letter?
- That's none of your business.

If {\it means that }you can use it to keep me
from practicing, {\I think }it is my business{\, yeah}.

{\You know, }I'm not responsible

for what other lives you destroy.

But I need something, proof,

a piece of paper

that tells me you know what you did.

So you want me to write a letter.

From you,
accepting full responsibility.

You took away my son's ability
to distance himself from his job,

and thus destroyed
his ability to do it.

You killed him.

That's all I want.

It's just for me. I'm not gonna show it
to anybody else. That's all I want.

You won't institute
a malpractice proceeding?

I can't get a picture out of my head

of my son in your office.

I need something...

That lets me know

that you know
you got blood on your hands.

Then you'll never hear
from me again.

You talk to your lawyers
and you let them know what you decide.