"It isn't that I want you to be upset at what happened, but it doesn't seem that you understand the gravity of what's going on with you. You just skip happily from one bizarre cataclysm to the next, while all around you, parents, relatives, and friends clutch their hearts in terror."

Mr. Marks cleared his throat. "The lesson for me is that we can't afford to miss any sessions. You've missed two in a row — with good reasons, obviously," (he meant the funeral and the operation), "but next time we have to reschedule. I mean, if your mother and your aunt hadn't called to tell me what happened, we would have spent this entire session trying to separate fantasy from reality."

He twisted his mouth, then cleared his throat. "Still, even knowing what happened, I have a very hard time believing that it's so. I'll be glad to hear Dr. Monroe's take on these new developments."

It's been a week since my operation. I mean operations, plural. It turns out that the hospital made a mistake and took out too much.

What happened is that before Aunt Jane arrived to help look things over, my mother had signed a batch of forms: insurance forms, hospital admission forms, consent forms.

Among the forms was a consent for an orchidectomy. It was there by mistake, but my mother signed it anyway, without knowing what she signed. The form said that she'd been informed of the nature of the procedure, etc., etc., but no one explained anything until after the fact.

What happened was that another patient in the ER needed the procedure for medical reasons, and a well-meaning clerk got the idea that *I* was that patient.

While they scheduled me for the appendectomy—which means removing my appendix — they also scheduled me for the orchidectomy—which means removing my testicles. You can probably guess what a big surprise it was to everyone, and — like my appendix, once they were gone, there was no putting them back.

My mother was mortified, and my father went through the roof. My aunt told me that Dad was suing the hospital, and my mother apologized over and over, in tears.

Honestly, though, I didn't mind.

"I don't understand why you're so upset," I said to Mr. Marks. "It's like you want to... to scold me or something. It's not like this was my fault."

Mr. Marks frowned. "What I don't understand is why it doesn't upset you," he countered. Then he paused and said, "No, that's not exactly what I meant to say. Look, the thing is, you act as if nothing particularly important happened. Like, you went to school, you had a snack, you played jump rope, you had a surgical procedure, you went to the mall... You don't seem to grasp the finality of what happened to you."

"What do you mean?"

Instead of answering me directly, Mr. Marks said, "Let me ask you this: you told me that you saw your mother crying. Why do you think she was crying?"

"Um, because of the mistake the hospital made."

"What does that mean to her?"

I shrugged. "I'm her child and she cares about me. She feels bad about signing the form. Also, this brings me one step closer to being a girl, and that's hard for her, too."

Mr. Marks scratched his head. I could see he was getting a little frustrated and impatient, which was unusual for him. "Okay. How about this: what event do parents want to see in their children's lives?"

"The day they move out?"

He groaned in frustration. "And then?"

"They get married?"

"And then?"

"They have kids?"

"Bingo! And what do they call those kids?"

"Grandchildren?"

"Exactly! Do you get it now?"

I licked my lips and looked around the room. I don't think I'm dumb, but I didn't see what he was driving at. I looked down at my Dodgers t-shirt. No answers there.

"Grandchildren!" he exclaimed. He had a hard time staying in his chair, he was so worked up. "Your mother wants grandchildren! Where are they going to come from?"

"From me?"

"Not any more!"

"Why not?"

Mr. Marks swore, and I was shocked. He'd always been kind, patient, and even funny. I realized later (when he apologized) that he was frustrated by my not understanding.

"Marcie, do you understand anything about human biology? Do you know about the birds and the bees? Where babies come from?" I nodded. He said, "It sure doesn't sound like it. You need to get a book for teens that explains all of that stuff. Before next week. And you have to read it. I'm going to quiz you on it, and I'm also going to call your mother to make sure you study it. Right now what's important is for you to realize that — regardless of appearance, in spite of breasts and surgical procedures — internally you are still a boy. You can't get pregnant, ever, not even if you have sexual reassignment surgery. There is no way, now or ever, that you can have a baby. Okay?"

I nodded.

"Until a week ago, you could have had a child of your own. You could have been a father. That would make your parents..."

"Grandparents."

"Very good. But now that you lost your testicles, you can never be a father. Your body doesn't produce sperm any more. Do you get it?"

"Yes."

He sighed. "I'm sorry I lost my temper with you. It isn't, as you said before, that I want you to be upset at what happened, but it doesn't seem that you understand the gravity of what's going on with you. You just skip happily from one bizarre cataclysm to the next, while all around you, parents, relatives, and friends clutch their hearts in terror."

"Really?"

"Really. This week, try to see how things affect your mother and your aunt. I don't necessarily mean asking them, but you could if you like. What I do mean is, look at their faces and try to imagine... if you were in their place, seeing you do the things you do. How would it feel to be your mother or your father or your aunt right now?"

"I'll try," I said. "Should I do that with you, too?"

He laughed. "It couldn't hurt."