Author: Wil

Anne and I took Felix to his vet on Monday for a blood panel. We hoped the results would let us know what our next step was.
Of course, the blood work came back yesterday that his red cell count is extremely low (17 or 19 or something like that) and his kidney values are very high. But his vet said that he’s not suffering unless he’s vomiting or some other stuff that I’ll spare you all. She told us that our options were to put Felix to sleep, or give him Epogen injections three times a week, sub-q fluids twice a day, liquid vitamins and an aluminum hydroxyde suspension each morning, and hope that all that helps him feel better.
It sounds like an awful lot, doesn’t it? Anne and I talked about it, and tried to figure out what was best. We are absolutely dedicated to doing what is best for Felix, and we’re not going to prolong his life simply because we don’t want to say goodbye . . . but if we can help him feel better, and have good quality of life then we want to do whatever we can afford to do. We asked his vet how she thought he’d respond to all this stuff, and she told us that she didn’t know. Apparently, it varies an awful lot from kitty to kitty. She told us what I’ve heard from hundreds of WWdN readers: “Your cat will let you know if he’s ready to go, or if he wants to stick around and try to feel better.”
The thing is, I’ve really felt like Felix has been telling us that he doesn’t feel well, and he’s really over it. He doesn’t want to be cuddled or scratched, or loved, and when I come near him he complains at me and slowly walks away.
Our choice should be pretty clear, right?
I wish it was.
We spent most of yesterday agonizing about it, and we eventually decided to let Felix tell us what we should do. The only question was . . . how?
About two weeks ago, Sketch had a couple of days where he seemed to really go downhill. His breathing was up to almost 50, and he had that freaked out look in his eyes that he had the weekend that we found out he had CHF. I made several frantic phone calls to his vet and his kitty cardiologist, and they advised me to give him extra medication to clear his lungs. After several hours, he was down to the low 40s, but was clearly still struggling. I worried that the medicine just wasn’t enough, and I hated seeing him in so much discomfort, so I sat down next to him on the floor in my bedroom and said, “I know that you’re feeling pretty lousy right now, and if you’re tired of medications and trips to the vet and feeling this way, I understand. I love you, and you’ve brought a lot to my life, but if you’re really suffering, I don’t want to force you to stay alive. But if you want to fight, we can help you feel better, and your doctors have told me what to do.” I scratched his little head and told him that he could let me know what he wanted me to do.
Okay, I realize how insane this sounds. Normally, I’m a pretty cold and rational person, and I would scoff at the idea of talking to my cat like he’s a person. I know, I know. It’s lame, right? But I don’t think it’s much different than praying, or asking the universe for help, or keeping someone in your thoughts, or anything like that. It’s just . . . it’s just putting a little bit of hope (or faith, or whatever) into Something Else. I’d never let it take the place of things like medication, trips to the doctor, or good solid science . . . but we humans have all these constructs in our minds, and sometimes we do some pretty silly things to stay comfortable. At times like this, I don’t care if I’m anthropomorphizing my pets. If I can assign some human qualities to their body language or behavior and feel a little closer to them, so be it.
I finished talking to Sketch, kissed the top of his head, and left him alone. I hoped the medicines would work, and I hoped that he’d “tell” me that he was feeling better. I walked out to the kitchen, called his vet, and had The Talk with her. She told me what my options were, and when I hung up the phone I just sat in there and stared at a blank AbiWord document for what seemed like hours.
It was actually closer to thirty minutes or so when I walked out into my living room, and saw Sketch. He was sitting up, eyes bright, in the middle of the floor.
“How you feeling, fatty?” I said.
He meowed at me. It was bright and clear. No gurgling. I crouched down, and he walked over to me, purring loudly. He rubbed his face against my hands, and walked little circles around me for a minute or so. Finally, he lay down on his side next to me and closed his eyes. He continued to purr.
I pet him for a bit, and he fell asleep. I counted his breaths: he was in the low 30s and he seemed to be doing fine. Clearly, the medication was working. Why it chose that particular moment to work rather than hours earlier when the vet said it should have is beyond me, and I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that I’d just had “The Talk” with my cat . . . and now I’m starting to realize how stupid I sound so I’ll just stop this right now. The bottom line is: whether it’s a coincidence or not, I asked Sketch to let me know what he wanted me to do, and I felt like he was telling me that he had some fight left in him. He continues to improve, and he’s been sleeping on my chest or on his back between me and Anne every night since then.
In fact, when I got home from What’s My Line tonight, Sketch hopped off my bed, walked with me into my office, and is currently on his back at my feet. I can hear him purring over the soft hum of my CPU’s fan.
Again, I’m really struggling with the . . . uh . . . metaphysical(?) aspect of this whole thing, but to get back to my point:
I walked out onto my patio this afternoon, and found Felix sleeping in this blanket I got from Think Geek that we call “The Geek Blanket.” It’s all fleecy and soft and snuggly, and all my animals love to sleep in it. (We put it on the patio near the spot Felix’s been spending most of his time, and stuck one of his catnip mice in it, because we thought it would help him feel more comfortable.) I was on the phone with my manager, telling him how Felix was doing.
“So we’re going to see what Felix wants us to do,” I said. “I know it sounds stupid, but I’m going to talk with him, and take the advice of our vet: Felix will tell us what he wants us to do.”
While I was talking about him, Felix looked up at me, walked over to where I was on the patio, and did the same thing Sketch did: the walk, the meowing, the nuzzling, the whole thing. I hung up the phone, and had “The Talk” with him. Yes, I know how stupid this sounds, and believe me it sounds insane to me to write it down . . . but it’s what I did. While I talked to him, he was more affectionate and vocal than he’d been in days.
I hung up the phone and called the vet. I told her that we’d try the vitamins and shots. When I hung up with her, Anne called.
“I thought about it, and I want to at least try to help Felix for a week. If he’s not feeling better, and if he’s got no quality of life, we’ll say goodbye to him and put him to sleep . . . but I couldn’t live with myself if we just gave up on him.”
I told her about him walking around me, just like Sketch. I told her how stupid it feels to talk about this like I had some kind of mystical conversation with my cats, but the bottom line is that we both really know what’s going on, and we know the odds are against us. But Felix’s vet says that he’s not in pain, and there’s a chance that he may respond positively to this treatment. It’s not too expensive, and we’ll see what happens in the next three to five days.
I’m exhausted, and I don’t know if this makes much sense. I started writing it before I left for ACME tonight, and I just don’t have the energy to edit or rewrite it. But people are e-mailing about Felix and Sketch, and I figure that if I’m going to share my concerns, at least I should share their progress.
Thanks for your comments and e-mails, and for keeping us in your thoughts.

Our cat Felix, who’s been slowly losing his kidney function for the last couple of years, has gotten really sick. He’s lost a lot of weight, and he tested at about 15% kidney function when we took him to the vet two weeks ago.
Man, first Sketch (who is doing very well, by the way, despite a scary episode last week) and now The Bear. This sucks.
For the last few days, Felix has spent most of his time on our patio in a little crouch. He looks so sad and uncomfortable, and even though we’re giving him fluids and as much love as we can, he’s just not getting better. I had the “I think I may have to put my kitty to sleep” talk with my vet last week about Sketch, and it looks like I’m going to have to have the same conversation with her about Felix this week.
It’s so sad, because other than his kidney problems, he’s really tough and healthy. Anne is just devastated about him. He is totally her little bear.
I feel completely helpless. As a husband, and as a pet owner, I’m doing everything I can . . . but it just feels like it’s not enough. It really, really sucks. 🙁
I’ve got convention stuff to write up, and some more CSI stuff, but that’s currently on hold while I take care of this.
If you can spare a thought for Felix, and especially for Anne, please do.

So this post is complete, utter, total and shameless pimping of myself and the brilliant cast who crank up the ACME Love Machine to eleven.
If you’re local to Los Angeles, and you haven’t been out to see ACME Love Machine, tonight would be the best night of all for you to come and collect your share of the funny.
I’m in this show that will eventually air on VH-1, and as part of their profile on me, they’re coming to the theatre tonight to tape our show. It would be awesome to give them a full house.
Please come see us tonight if you haven’t, or even if you have already. Thanks!!
WHAT: ACME Love Machine
WHERE: Acme Comedy Theatre
135 N. La Brea
Hollywood, CA 90036
(323) 525-0202
WHEN: Tonight, 8 pm.
Backstage West’s review is reprinted after the jump, for you fence-sitters. 🙂

Around 8:57 last night, I had a brief flash of panic: What if they cut my part down? I’m going to feel like the biggest jackass in history!
It was like that moment when you’re on a roller coaster, just before the chain catches and starts to pull you up the first hill: Is this going to be fun, or is it going to make me sick? But then the show started, and all I could do was watch.
I will admit that I felt my face flush when I saw my name on the screen. Anne and the kids cheered, and my stomach filled with butterflies. That was cool.
The show really reflected what I read in the script, almost word-for-word and beat-for-beat. I had forgotten that that is pretty common in television: so many people have to sign off on the story and dialogue that there is little change between what we shoot on the set and what the audience finally sees. It’s totally different in movies (theatrical or television) where the director and producers usually have much more time to cut something together, and there’s always a little bit of mystery about what is (and isn’t) going to finally make it into the final cut. Anyway, I mention it because I’d totally forgotten that’s how it is in television.
I knew that Walter was in the “B” story, and I knew that I only had a few scenes, so I relaxed. The only way they’d seriously cut my scenes down is if I just sucked out loud on the set, and I was fairly sure I didn’t.
When they found the shoe imprint under the kid’s window, Ryan turned to me and he said, “Oh! I totally know you did it, because that’s a Converse imprint!”
Before I could answer, Nolan said, “They had you wear your own shoes?”
“No,” I said. “I wore Converse from the wardrobe department that were exactly like mine but covered with dirt and oil and junk. It was funny to me that I’d take off my shoes each morning, and put on the exact same shoes, only dirty.”
“SHH!” Anne said. Apparently she was watching the show.
The show rolled on, and we all laughed out loud during the “only geeks say ‘da bomb'” scene. I guess I’m not a real geek, because I don’t think I’ve ever said “da bomb.” And if I do, I hope someone hits me in the back of the head so it never happens again.
I knew it would be a long time before I was on screen, but it still felt like an eternity . . . until someone mentioned “that creepy homeless guy” and my family cheered again.
“Oh! I know that guy!” I said, and laughed with them as my nerves started to get worked up again.
Then, suddenly, George and Gary drove into the park, and there was crazy Walter in his little tent.
I thought I looked a little chubby in my face (thank you, Stone Brewing company) but the real volatility that I was hoping for was definitely there. After they walked me off to the police car, Nolan said, “Man, that was scary!”
“It was cool, though,” Ryan said.
“Thanks, you guys.”
Couple of things about that scene:

• That was the first scene I filmed in the show, and I turned the excited “I can’t fucking believe I get to do this!” energy into “My! Name! Is! Walter!” and “It’s Mine!” Heh.
• We had to race to get it filmed, because the skies were really threatening to tear themselves open and rain all over us.
• They cut the scene before I got thrown into the police car, but on one of the takes, Joe Kelly threw me into the car so violently I flew across the seat and slammed my head into the door on the other side. In addition to the ringing in my ears, I got to enjoy the stabbing of a thousand wig pins. It really hurt, but because we were all worried about the rain, I didn’t say anything about it to anyone. I just quietly asked my costumer if she could hook me up with some Advil, which she did. So Walter’s totally hopped up on Advil in that scene.
• I had bruises for several days on my arms and in my ribs from struggling against the cops when they pulled me out of my cool little tent.
• Though it was on screen for about 22 seconds, it took close to two hours to shoot that sequence.
• We shot it in a park in The Valley, about a quarter of a mile from the location where the murdered kid’s house was.

Oh shit, it’s 11am. I haven’t showered yet, and I have to be at the Grand Slam Star Trek convention in 30 minutes.
It feels anti-climactic to stop this entry here, but I’ll write about the rest of the show later today or over the weekend.

So, uh . . . there’s a story about me in today’s New York Times.
Oh my god. The New York Times. And it’s incredible.
In 1000 words John Schwartz captures and communicates who I am, what I am, where I am, and (most importantly) why I am. I always hope that reporters will understand me, but John grokked me.
I spoke with John for about 90 minutes last week, and the story he wrote is in today’s edition of the Times: A Computer Is Also a Screen, Wil Wheaton Discovers.
I was going to buy the reprint rights so I could put it up here, but the Times wants $1,000 from me for a year, and as much as I’d like to spare you all the annoying-but-free registration, I think that money would be better spent on some bills. The bugmenot plugin for Firefox calls . . . 🙂 Update: or you can use this NYT-approved blog-friendly link. Thanks to countless e-mailers and commenters who pointed it out, and to Aaron Swartz who wrote the oh-so-useful code.
The absolute best part, the part that made me scream out in joy and run laps around my living room is:

Mr. Wheaton said that on the “CSI” set, he had to manage a potential conflict between his new writerly self and the professional actor. “It was unbelievably difficult for me the first two days I was working on the show to be very present,” he said. “They’d say ‘Cut!’ and I’d say, ‘I can’t wait to write about this!'”
If he was distracted, it didn’t show, said Duane Clark, the director of the episode. Mr. Wheaton had originally tried out for a smaller role, a hotel clerk. But after seeing his audition tape, Carol Mendelsohn, one of the executive producers, suggested giving him the meatier role of Walter, even though the writers had drawn him as an older alcoholic. A younger drug addict, she said, might prove more menacing, more interesting.
At first, Mr. Clark said, the writers said, “Wil Wheaton, a crack addict – are you nuts?” But Mr. Clark said that Mr. Wheaton brought “a lot of scary volatility” to the role.
“He really dug his teeth into it,” Mr. Clark said, “and on his own came up with a backstory of who Walter was.”
“He really filled out what could have been a caricature. ” he said.

Oh.
My.
God.
When I read that the producer and director believed in me, and the writers took a chance on me . . . well, I’m speechless.
And if all this wasn’t enough, John helps me put some nails into that “former child actor” coffin:

To Mr. Wheaton, the experience on “CSI” is proof, if any is needed, that he’s still in the game. “When you say a ‘former child star,’ you may as well say ‘failed child star,’ ” he said. “The fact is, Jodie Foster is a former child star. Ron Howard is a former child star. I am a former child star. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

I can’t wait to watch CSI tonight, and see how I did. I haven’t been this excited to see something I did since the first screening of Stand By Me.