When Tammy had The Surgery, I sent her something from the FTD florist's New Baby collection. It was a pink teddy bear holding a balloon, with the words It's A Girl! printed on it in swirly girlie cursive. Tammy reportedly found it funny, although how much of that was a result of the nitric oxide still swimming around her brain I cannot say.

It was a few days later before I summoned the energy to drive over the hill for my obligatory hospital visit. My reticence wasn't due to a lack of concern. I was — understandably I think — a little hospital-ed out by that point and I hoped this would be the last one I'd see for a while.

Tammy had a large private room that was mostly wasted space. Vast swathes of bare floor and a paucity of visitor seating. The seventh-story windows looked out on a nondescript steel-and-glass office building. Off in the distance, I could see the skyscrapers of downtown choking on the smog.

When I arrived, Tammy was sitting up in her hospital bed, playing some mindless game on her iPad. Solitaire or Blackjack or something. She looked up at me and tried to smile, but winced instead. Remember what I said about how bad my mother looked in the hospital? Forget about it. Compared to Tammy she was Ms. Universe. Or at least third runner up. (Which is still pretty good for a grandmother in her sixties.) Tammy looked absolutely dreadful. Worse than I had ever seen her. And I had seen her with food poisoning, lying facedown on the bathroom floor in a pool of her — well, his at the time — own vomit, too weak to lift his head high enough to puke in the toilet. Tammy was pale and splotchy and ugly and weak and basted with sweat. Her face was still unmistakably masculine, with drooping skin that rippled as she registered small spasms of pain through the morphine.

And I know this isn't the most pressing issue facing the medical community, but would it really be that difficult to make a hospital gown that was flattering? Or at least didn't give the wearer a deathly pallor? Perhaps that would make for a worthwhile Project Runway challenge. Anyone have the number for Tim Gunn?

Anyway.

It was amazing to think that anyone would choose to subject themselves to this. It wasn't like repairing my demon-crushing injury or the preemptive strike against the malignant cells that were conspiring to kill my mother. It wasn't like spinal compression surgery or a kidney transplant or a hernia operation. It wasn't like putting in a stent after a heart attack or a metal rod to strengthen a bone. It wasn't like removing a cataract or an inflamed appendix or a bullet or a baby by Caesarian section. There was in fact no medical reason at all for her to be carved up and reshaped by a stainless steel blade.

It wasn't an entirely alien concept, though. When Tom and I were casting the ill-fated pilot The Scale — the one that didn't go because the new network president didn't want to "watch some ugly fat woman" — we also held auditions for the role of the ugly fat woman's mother. These were actresses between the ages of sixty and seventy (a couple were older, but lying about their age) pretty much all of whom we recognized from the TV of our youth, most of them in their day famously adorable or beautiful.

What we witnessed was a parade of horrors. Not because they had gotten older, but because nearly all of them had undergone some kind of cosmetic surgery — when the state of the art was not nearly as good as it is today — and the results ranged from disturbing to freakish.

Why in God's name would they do this to themselves?

(One of the few that didn't, by the way, was legendary comedienne Cloris Leachman. When she showed up for her audition, instead of shaking my hand like everyone else, she kissed me on the mouth. Then she told us that she was going to write a book about her life entitled Men I Haven't Fucked because it would be a lot shorter than the converse. A pistol, that one.)

I could not help but be judgmental of these women. It seemed to me like vanity, desperately clinging to their faded youths. And maybe it was. But then again there was a very clear message being sent by Hollywood to women: You only matter if you're young and thin and pretty. And it was clear what they were chasing. They had an image in their heads of what they once looked like, and the adulation and power that went with it, and they were willing to literally bleed for it.

But if the pressure on these actresses was external, the pressure on Tammy was completely internal. Society may have convinced, say, Barbara Eden (I Dream Of Genie) to pay a cosmetic surgeon to make mincemeat out of her face — Oh, Lord, people, it was so upsetting, a thousand youthful fantasies obliterated by her rictus smile — but it wanted no part of Tammy's transformation. If anything, society actively discouraged it. Tammy did all this because she knew — somehow — that the body she had been born with was a lie and she wanted — she needed — everyone to see the truth.

That was, I think, the primary difference between Barbara and Tammy. Barbara gave in. Tammy broke out.

Although to be perfectly honest, that's not what it looked like that day in the hospital room. All I could think was, I hope to hell this does the trick. Because this, I knew, was the end of the line. If this didn't bring Tammy peace, there was nothing left to try, and no going back.

"So how's it going, buddy?" I said cheerfully. I was acting upbeat, because it was preferable to my initial instinct, which was to run away, screaming.

Tammy put her iPad on the night stand, which took a surprising amount of effort. "The doctor says everything is normal." I thought that was an interesting choice of words. "But I haven't been able to explore down there yet." She glanced down at her shapeless hospital gown in the general area of her newly refurbished crotch.

I waged a vicious and luckily successful battle to obliterate the images that were threatening to form in my head.

"Good!" I cheered. "Glad to hear it!" I took a seat in a rocking chair inthe corner.

"Anything going on with the show?" She was referring to Suit & Tie. I actually had some important news about that, but I was waiting for the right moment to tell it to her.

I shrugged. "Just taking care of a few loose ends." Post-production was all but finished. A few more minor tweaks and one more sound editing session and that particular nightmare would be over.

After that, we made small talk, chatting about the latest episodes of Game of Thrones and The Daily Show With Jon Stewart and passing along "hellos" from our mutual friends and former coworkers. But her attention kept wandering, her eyes unfocused, and I would realize I was talking to nobody. I attributed it to the pain medication, but truthfully, it wasn't all that different than talking to Tammy usually.

Realizing that she was fading, I hurried to deliver the news that I had been sitting on. "Before I go," I said loudly, "there's one more thing you should know."

"Oh, yeah?" she said groggily. "What's that?"

"Well," I began, "you're not going to believe this, but..."

Before I could finish my sentence, she fell asleep. Which was unusual, but not unprecedented. There were at least a dozen times over the years when we would be working and Tammy's eyes would roll back in her head and then close completely. When I would wake her she would, for some reason, deny that she had fallen asleep even though she was snoring. At least this time, she had a good excuse.

I waited for a few minutes, hoping that she would somehow claw her way back to consciousness, but it was clear that wouldn't be happening any time soon. So I left, glad that Tammy was doing OK, but sad that I wouldn't be the one to tell her the news: Suit & Tie had just been nominated for an Emmy.

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We had been nominated for a Creative Arts Emmy in the category of Outstanding Children's Animated Program. There are, I learned, three different kinds of Emmys, each with its own awards presentation: Primetime, Daytime and Creative Arts. There was definitely a pecking order, and we were at the bottom. To give you some context, the Primetime Emmys were held at the world-famous Nokia Theater and broadcast on CBS to an audience of over seventeen million. The Daytime Emmys were held at the Beverly Hilton in Beverly Hills and was broadcast on HLN to an audience of almost a million. The Creative Arts Emmys were held at a crack den in Canoga Park and was broadcast by megaphone to a handful of crackheads when the police showed up to raid the place.

(I'm kidding, of course. In reality, it was at the Westin Bonaventure in Downtown L.A. and it wasn't broadcast at all.)

That all said, though, when I heard the news I was thrilled out of my mind. I actually opened my front door and shouted Yeeeeeeeesssss! at the top of my lungs, annoying my neighbors and alarming Samantha, who came running across the back yard because she thought I was either having a heart attack or being murdered. Both scenarios, incidentally, that she was in no way qualified to handle.

"You want to be my date?" I asked, after I explained the reason for my primal scream.

"What? You don't want to take Channing?" she said dryly. Channing was a woman I had dated a few times because, honestly, Samantha had dated people and I wanted to even the score. Not necessarily in a spiteful way, but with an eye towards preventing a power imbalance if and when we reconciled, which I now understand was a really dumb strategy.

Channing was young (compared to me, anyway), super-hot and nuts. She was compelling in her own way, but not the kind of person you want sitting next to you at a black tie event.

"This may be the only award show I ever get to go to. Only seems fair that you get to go with me."

"Well, we are technically still married so... sure."

I kissed her then I then happily went back inside to post the news of my victory on Facebook. I don't remember the exact wording. Emmy Nomination, Bitches! or something equally poetic. And then I sat in front of my computer and watched as the congratulations came rolling in. My show biz peers were all laudatory, but many of them had themselves been nominated for, and sometimes won, Primetime Emmys and I sensed — or perhaps imagined — a little bit of condescension. A Creative Arts Emmy? Awwww! Isn't that adorable?

In stark contrast was the unbridled enthusiasm of people from our high school. Many of them didn't just "like" and comment on my post, they wrote posts of their own, bragging about how their "good friends" had gotten an Emmy nomination. (Sometimes it's easy to forget how cool this was to people who lived outside the Hollywood bubble.) They were not, nor had they ever been, our good friends (or in most cases, friends at all) but I didn't mind. This was, of course, one of the things Tom and I fantasized about way back when. That the people who snubbed us when we were kids would envy us as adults. And I have to say, that felt pretty good.

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The Primetime awards ceremony was hosted by the multi-talented television, theater and internet star Neil Patrick Harris. Our award ceremony was co-hosted by Teresa Ganzel and Bob Bergen and I only know that because I just looked it up on Wikipedia. Still no clue who they are. I suppose I could Google them, but really, who gives a shit?

The Bonaventure ballroom was nice but unremarkable. At first blush, you might have concluded that you were at the wedding reception of a well-to-do but unimaginative couple, were it not for the large video screens and the sea of golden statuettes waiting to be handed out after a mediocre dinner of chicken, steak or a vegetarian option (aka steamed cauliflower). But while everything else about the evening was decidedly third tier, the awards themselves were not; they were identical to the ones they got at the grown-ups' table.

Everyone dressed up, of course. Samantha looked fantastic in her blue-off-the-shoulder cocktail dress. It was the same dress that she had provoked so much jealousy when she went on her first date with Devin and I wondered if that was on purpose. A little payback for my tryst with Channing. That didn't seem like her style, but you never know. Either way, it didn't bother me. Samantha was spending the evening with me and I was happy about that.

I wore a black tuxedo with a black-and-white checkered vest. It was the same tux I wore to my wedding. I had bought it instead of renting it under the wildly optimistic assumption that I'd be going to a lot of award shows. It was nearly twenty years later and this was my first one. So not a terribly cost-effective decision. But there was this: I could still fit in it. It was snug, to be sure, but I was able to successfully button my pants.

Small victories.

And speaking of small victories, I had been very much looking forward to seeing some of the DuckGoose executives again and needling them about their short-sightedness. How incredibly stupid you must feel to have gotten rid of us!

Nobody took the bait. And really, why would they? Our dismissal was ancient history, and they had moved forward without us. They were all perfectly pleasant — even Evelyn, who turns out to have a decent sense of humor when she's off the clock — but I wanted some acknowledgement about how mistreated we were, and I never got it.

Worse, though, was the question they would inevitably ask: What are you and Tammy working on now? At which point I would do everything I could to disengage from the conversation, because the answer was: Nothing. We're not doing a goddam thing. We had taken a lot of meetings, and they all seemed to go great, but somehow they never led to actual employment and we couldn't figure out why. We weren't panicking yet, but we were working up to it.

The only DuckGoose person who gave me any satisfaction at all was Benny and he was transparently full of shit. He came running over, a highball in hand, feigning anger. "How could you do this to me?"

"Do what?"

"It was hard enough living in your shadow before, and now I have to compete with you winning an Emmy!"

"We haven't won yet."

"You'd better! Because if you don't, I am quitting this fakakta business and becoming a rabbi! Hand to God!" He raised his hand, but it had a drink in it, so it looked less like a hand to God than a toast to God. "Because if what you did doesn't deserve an Emmy, then what chance do I have!"

While we were talking, Samantha elbowed me. And then again. I turned to her. "What?"

"Tammy's here," she said.

I followed Samantha's sight line, but I didn't see anyone I recognized. "Where?"

She rolled her eyes and then intensified her stare. "Right there!"

And then Tammy finally snapped into focus. "Ho. Lee. Shit," I said quietly.

OK. This is going take me into some uncomfortable territory, so bear with me. See, up until this point, I had never been able to see Tammy as anything but a man in women's clothing. I didn't mean that as a pejorative; I completely accepted that she was a woman. But this was just what I actually, literally saw through my increasingly blurry middle-aged eyeballs.

And I certainly did not see her as beautiful, as some people — all of them female — weirdly insisted I should. Representative of these conversations was one I had with Gia, The World's Loudest Lesbian.

Don't you think Tammy's beautiful?

No.

What? How can you fucking say that?

Because she's fucking not.

Well, I think she looks fucking incredible!

Really, Gia? So if you didn't know her and you saw her on the street you would be all, I'd totally tap that ass! Or whatever the lesbian analog to ass-tapping is?

(Long silence) Well... she's not really my type... but... Fuck you!

So it was shocking — and thoroughly disorienting — when I found myself looking at what seemed to me in every respect to be a woman, only to realize that she was my best and oldest friend. And she was, I had to admit, quite beautiful.

Granted, it was a beauty born of hours of expensive skin treatments at Burke Williams Spa, makeup and hair professionally done, teeth whitened by a celebrity dentist (which is apparently a real thing), curves and cleavage courtesy of vice-like shapewear and an industrial strength bustier. Black lace wrap front dress custom-tailored and expertly fitted. A gold statement necklace glittering in the low light.

It was a transient beauty that would not survive until morning. A beauty so labor-intensive to achieve that I have never seen it again. But beauty nonetheless.

She looked so happy and I was happy for her. Everyone was. Well, actually, no. Some of the wives were grousing about Tammy stealing the spotlight. As one wife put it, "I got all dressed up, too, but thanks to Tranny Tammy, nobody gives a fuck."

(Tranny Tammy? Jesus, that was cold! And also, how did I not think of that?)

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The awards ceremony was dreadfully boring. Which, in fairness, I have found true of all awards shows, but this was worse, with a tremendous number of technical awards for things like Lighting Direction, Makeup and Set Design. And if you think that acceptance speeches by famous actors are interminable, try listening to the guy who won for Outstanding Live & Direct To Tape Sound Mixing thanking everybody who continued to believe in him during the darkest hours of his Live & Direct To Tape Sound Mixing journey.

About halfway through this snooze-a-thon our category was announced. It went by really fast. One of the co-hosts — I don't remember which one — read off the five nominees.

Some stupid show

Another stupid show

Suit & Tie

An unfathomably stupid show

A show I had never heard of, but was probably stupid, too

"And the award goes to..." A pause while the envelope was torn open. "An unfathomably stupid show!"

That was it. It couldn't have taken more than forty-five seconds for us to go from We're gonna win! to It's an honor just to be nominated! Which of course it wasn't. It's an honor to be nominated for a Pulitzer or Nobel Prize or even an AVN Award (look it up). But not winning an award in a category that hardly anybody outside our cartoon cubbyhole even exists? Um, no.

And if that wasn't disappointing enough, Benny didn't quit the business.

That said, though, it was a fantastic evening for Tammy. In fact, if you check out her profile pic today — and I suspect for the rest of her life — you'll see a picture of her from that night. She is looking into the lens, relaxed with a pretty, natural smile, the highlights of her hair shining, her eyes sparkling. And you can see that everything that led up to that moment had indeed been worth it. You can see the woman she always wanted to be.

And while it wasn't quite as momentous, I had a fantastic evening, too. Because I went home with Samantha and she gave me a consolation hand job. Like I said: Small victories.