Author: Wil

The past seven days have been some of the most turbulent days of my life. While I celebrated the first installment of my column “The Games of Our Lives” in the Onion AV Club, and started the second run of What’s My Line? Live On Stage at ACME, I felt excited and happy . . . but through it all, I was constantly worried about my cat Sketch.
The doctors who treated him were wonderful, and encouraged me to call every few hours to check on him, but whenever I started to dial the phone, my hands got cold and my heart raced. Would this be the call where they tell me how sorry they are, but he suddenly took a turn for the worse and they did all they could but . . .
Fortunately, my worries remained just worries, and he continued to steadily improve all week, and he’s finally home. Right now, he’s sleeping in his favorite spot in my bedroom, between the curtain and the window into the backyard.
His doctor wants to recheck him in five to seven days to determine how his kidneys are doing, and take another x-ray to see how his lungs look. With that information, he’ll be able to let us know if Sketch will be on a diuretic, and if so how often. He’s going to be on heart medication for the rest of his life, and there’s a good chance that it will prevent him from getting fluid in his lungs again, so we’ll see.
Right before we left the vet, he told us that we should watch Sketch closely, and if his breathing becomes labored or rapid, we should give him a diuretic right away (easier said than done — Sketch hates taking pills) and give him a call. It’s weird. A week ago, whenever Sketch walked past me in the house, or I saw him on the couch or under the dining room table, I’d just say, “Hi fatguy!” and keep on doing my thing. Most times, I didn’t even stop to pet him. Since he came home this morning, I’ve been checking on him three or four times an hour (it would be more, but I don’t want to stress him out too much) just to make sure he’s still alive. I stand in the doorway and watch his breathing, and I keep checking his dish to see if he’s eaten. I’ve been a basketcase all week, and I thought that getting him home would put everything back into its right place, but now that he’s here, I realize just how much of an old man he is (about 65 in human years) and how fragile his life is.
I haven’t blogged about how much I’ve cried this week, because anyone playing the Joy of Tech drinking game would probably have cirrhosis by now . . . but I’ve had a week of puffy red eyes and shoulder shaking sobs because, honestly, this ordeal is about much more than just Sketch. I told Anne the other day, while we walked Ferris and Riley through the fading light of a magnificent Winter sunset, “I have been such a mess this week, worrying about Sketch, and it’s tearing me up to know that I’m going to have to go through this with Biko, and Ferris, and Riley, and again with Sketch someday. I have always known that I would outlive all our pets, but if I’m such a mess when I face his mortality, what am I going to do when my parents die? Or what about my brother and sister? I don’t want to even think about it, but I can’t help it. What if I outlive you? What if something happens to you like a car wreck or you get cancer or you fall down and hit your head or —”
She took my hand and said, “I don’t know.”
Neither do I. In times like these, when I realize how complicated and precious our lives are, I long for those days when the biggest problem in my life was choosing between watching Scooby Doo and playing Legend of Zelda, or what shirt I was going to wear to school.
I guess I have to find a balance between taking nothing for granted, while not spending each day thinking about the inevitable loss of the people I love. I guess life is as simple, and as complicated, as that.
In the middle of the night on Saturday, when Sketch was in the emergency vet and we didn’t know what was wrong with him, I walked into the back yard, looked up into the stars, and asked The Universe to take care of him. Some people call it a prayer, some people call it focusing energy, other people call it the final refuge of a desperate man, but I asked, and my fat little guy (whose spine is currently as bony as Monty Burns) pulled through.
I’m so grateful that Sketch is home, and relatively healthy. I am so grateful to the doctors and vets who diagnosed him and nursed him back to health. I am equally grateful to all of you WWdN readers who have virtually held my hand this week. It’s given Anne and me a lot of comfort to hear all the success stories, and to have so much kitty love and mojo.
I have big news, which has only added to the emotional roller coaster that I’ve ridden so violently this week, but I’ll announce it on Monday. Right now, I need to go kiss my wife, and then stand in the doorway and watch my kitty sleep.

I visited my fat guy this afternoon. He looks good, even if he’s a little skinny. I left him with his catnip mouse, and a T-shirt that I wore yesterday, and his brother slept on all day today. I think it’ll make him happy.

I was able to stay with him for about an hour. I tried to feed him, but he didn’t want to eat. Whenever I’d put some food by his face, he’d push it away, and rub against my hand instead. I think he just wanted lots of love, and I got the impression that he just wants to come home.

Anne is going to visit him tonight, and his vet told me that he’d get to come home tomorrow.

I asked her how long he had, assuming we figure out what dosage of lasix does a good job of keeping his lungs dry without hurting his kidneys too much . . . and she told me that the average for cats is six months to a year. I had to choke back some tears when she said that, and she told me that it was just the average. Sketch could live much longer. Of course, he could also live shorter. We won’t have a good idea for a few days.

At least he’s getting to come home, though. I really miss him.

Sketch’s vet told me that his lungs are clear, he’s bright and active, and he’s looking strong . . . but his kidney levels are still elevated from the lasix, and he isn’t eating.
It really worries me that he’s not eating, but I hope it’s just because he’s tired of being in the hospital, and he wants to come home and sleep on my his bed.
They told me that I should come down and visit him, because maybe he’ll eat for me. Sketch has always been a stubborn cat, but he’s extremely affectionate, and I’m hoping that when I get down there and give him some love, and tell him how excited we all are for him to come home, he’ll perk up and chow down.
I’m scared. I don’t like it that he’s not eating.

Sketch is clearly feeling all the monkey (and monkey-kitty) mojo. I just talked with his vet, and he told me that Sketch is doing much, much better. He’s almost completely out of congestive heart faliure! His vet told me that Sketch ate food overnight (as far as we know, he hadn’t eaten all weekend), and that he was out of oxygen, sitting up, looking around, and being “very, very talkative.”
I talked with his vet yesterday evening, and he told me that Sketch’s lungs were about 2/3 less filled with fluid than they were on Saturday, so he was responding very well to the lasix, and his breathing was down to about 24 from as high as 50 or 80 (sorry, I can’t remember exactly what it was) when we brought him in yesterday morning. It was the news I was hoping to hear, and I burst into tears of relief when I hung up the phone. I made a bit of a spectacle of myself, but I didn’t (and don’t) care. My fat guy is getting better.
It was kind of surreal last night to sit in the theatre at ACME and pitch my sketches for the next show. The word “sketch” was said about a thousand times (duh) and each time I heard it, my eyes filled up. I think I’m going to write a sketch about it, though. It could be pretty funny, once I clean up the gallows humor.
He will get a cardiac ultrasound later today, or early tomorrow, depending on how he’s feeling, and then we’ll know what his heart disease is, and how to treat it. I know he’s not out of the woods yet, but there are rays of hope shining down all around us, and the path is very clear.
Thank you for all your comments and e-mails. This has been a rough few days for me and my family. Each time I’ve heard from someone who had a similar experience with their cat years ago, I feel a little more hopeful that Sketch will be another one of those cats who rang Death’s doorbell, then ran down the walkway laughing before He could open the door.

I just got home from the vet.
The whole drive down there, we sat in some of the worst LA traffic I’ve seen in years (at least it felt that way . . . my perception was obviously skewed by grief and worry) and Sketch howled and panted the entire way, so I scritched his little fang face, and told him how so many kitties and monkeys were pulling for him, and how we were getting closer to the doctor who would take care of him and help him feel better. The truthis, I was trying to convince myself more than him. By the time we got there, he was breathing so hard he wasn’t even holding his head up, and I was convinced that he was going to die before I could get him into the waiting room.
As soon as we walked in, a tech came over and put him into an oxygen cage to help him calm down and breathe, while Anne and I waited to talk with the doctor.
After a few tense minutes, the vet came in, and told us that Sketch has congestive heart failure, and that’s why his lungs are filling up with fluid. He said that this is a common condition in Maine Coon cats, and he’s treated it many times before. It was very reassuring to hear so much confidence from the vet. At least now we have an idea of how to proceed.
We still don’t know what brought it on, and until we perform the cardiac ultrasound, we won’t know for sure, or how to treat it. The vet told us that he can drain Sketch’s lungs with Lasix, and when Sketch calms down, he’ll be able to do the ultrasound. He’s pretty sure it’s hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, though, and he told us that he just saw a kitty this morning who he treated a year ago, who looked just like Sketch when she came in. I don’t want to have false hope, but Anne keeps saying, “I just don’t think it’s Sketch’s time to go,” and I desperately want to believe her.
The really sad news is that, even after his lungs are cleared out, we won’t ever be able to reverse the damage to his heart, and he will eventually die from it. If we *are* able to drain his lungs and figure out what’s wrong with his heart, he should have good quality of life, though he’ll spend the rest of it on medication.
The really encouraging news is that the vet knew right away what was wrong, and how to get Sketch comfortable and stabilized. He told us that once a cat is stabilized from this sort of thing, it’s very rare for them to worsen or die. So we’re hopeful, but prepared for the worst, as well.
You know that saying, “Prepare for the worst, hope for the best”? When you’re actually doing it, it’s a lot harder than it sounds.
The doctor wants to take things slowly with Sketch, so he doesn’t stress him out and make things worse, so right now we’re just focused on making him comfortable and getting his lungs clear. Once that’s done, we’ll do the ultrasound, and then we’ll get a better picture of what comes next. I doubt we’ll know anything for at least 24 hours.
I want to thank everyone who has kept Anne, me, and Sketch in your thoughts. Your comments and e-mails have meant a great deal to us (even Sketch, who only reads at a first grade level.)
I’ll post more when I know more.