In a past life, I made routine (sales) calls in a skilled nursing facility. One resident, I recall, resembled Piglet in her current form — a little older, but otherwise content to eat similarly. Month or so in, they assign her to physical therapy. It was assisted workouts with plenty of long-acting insulin, plus light dinners with sugar-free Jello for dessert. Pretty standard. It'll improve your prognosis and keep you from dying, if you're compliant. 'Compliant', for her, though, meant regular deliveries from her smooth-brained son. Fucker would stroll in, nightly, holding a white grocery bag with all the essentials: A large jar of Skippy peanut butter, a plastic knife & thirty, fun-size peanut butter cups to smear the Skippy on. (there's 6650 calories in the peanut butter alone; add 3300 for the Reese's and you're bordering 10K). Meanwhile, she's cocked on a hero dose of Gabapentin during the day, 10 milligrams of hydrocodone, blood-thinners and whatever the fuck else. Didn't take long before she was wheel-chair bound, either. By the time I saw her again, she'd had a stroke and 3/4's of her left foot was missing — surgeon had to lop it off when her treatment-resistant ulcers turned necrotic. I didn't know this lady particularly well, but she was the sort that'd sooner add marigolds to her diet than remove calories. If Piglet's fate is an approximation, she has a lot of pain and suffering on the horizon. Hope it was worth it.
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