This AI-assisted memory image portrays the silent peril of aspiration in a supine, unconscious patient. Fluid descends by gravity into the dependent lower lung fields, a vivid reminder that the distribution of aspiration is governed by gravitational pull rather than anatomy alone. The title underscores a dual meaning: gravity not only dictates the physical flow of aspirated material “down” into the lungs, but also symbolizes the life-threatening consequence — that gravity itself, when combined with loss of consciousness and loss of reflex, can lead to fatal descent toward the grave.
Courtesy: Ashley Davidoff MD, TheCommonVein.com (140518.MAD.gif) — AI-assisted Davidoff Art.
Aspiration
Lyrics
(Verse 1) She’d lay her head down on the pillow The moon was shining on the willow But sleep would never come to stay A tickle in her throat held sway It started small, a simple hack But then the coughing would attack A choking, rasping, endless sound Especially when the night came round.
(Chorus) Oh, that Aspiration Pneumonia A little sip that’s “gone-ia” Down the wrong pipe, a silent flame It’s a whisper, but it’s not a game The nighttime cough, the fever soft A heavy price for what she quaffed.
(Verse 2) By morning, she was weak and worn Her temperature, a low-grade thorn Just ninety-nine, it wasn’t high But chilled her ‘neath the daytime sky The doctors couldn’t see the cause They’d listen, nod, and make a pause “It’s just a bug, it’s just a cold” But the story, it was getting old.
(Chorus) Oh, that Aspiration Pneumonia A little sip that’s “gone-ia” Down the wrong pipe, a silent flame It’s a whisper, but it’s not a game The nighttime cough, the fever soft A heavy price for what she quaffed.
(Outro) That silent flame, that small mistake That keeps her coughing, wide awake.
Poem
The Wrong Pipe
She’d lay her head down on the pillow, The moon was shining on the willow, But sleep would never come to stay; A tickle in her throat held sway. It started small, a simple hack, But then the coughing would attack. A choking, rasping, endless sound, Especially when the night came round.
By morning, she was weak and worn, Her temperature, a low-grade thorn. Just ninety-nine, it wasn’t high, But chilled her ‘neath the daytime sky. The doctors couldn’t see the cause, They’d listen, nod, and make a pause. “It’s just a bug, it’s just a cold,” But the story, it was getting old.
A little sip that’s “gone-ia,” Down the wrong pipe, a silent flame. It’s a whisper, but it’s not a game; That aspiration pneumonia. The nighttime cough, the fever soft, A heavy price for what she quaffed— That silent flame, that small mistake That keeps her coughing, wide awake.