Lyrics
“NSIP – The Fibrotic Type”
(Verse 1) Fifty-nine, the years roll by, Scleroderma, ‘neath a heavy sky. My Raynaud’s fingers, blue and cold, A story that’s been often told. Now flexed and curled, the tips are short, My nails are bending, in retort. This tightening skin, a cruel embrace, And breath is failing, losing pace.
(Chorus) Oh, NSIP – The Fibrotic Type, A tougher battle, no easy swipe. No simple cellular haze, it’s deep, As lung tissue starts to creep Into a state of endless scar, A heavier burden, near and far.
(Verse 2) The CT spins, a clearer view, “Bilateral basal,” says the crew. “Bronchovascular involvement,” they point, My lungs are shrinking, out of joint. Volume loss, the fissures pull, Bronchiectasis, making me full Of worries, as the air won’t flow, Bronchiolectasis, a bitter show.
(Chorus) Oh, NSIP – The Fibrotic Type, A tougher battle, no easy swipe. No simple cellular haze, it’s deep, As lung tissue starts to creep Into a state of endless scar, A heavier burden, near and far.
(Bridge) Subpleural sparing, a distinctive sign, Still there, though fibrosis entwines. Reticulation, a fine-spun web, Ground-glass fading, on the ebb. Then one more sign, a reflux plight, An air-fluid level, dimming my light. My esophagus, distended and wide, Another symptom, deep inside.
(Chorus) Oh, NSIP – The Fibrotic Type, A tougher battle, no easy swipe. No simple cellular haze, it’s deep, As lung tissue starts to creep Into a state of endless scar, A heavier burden, near and far.
(Outro) The tightening, the breath so thin, The fibrotic type, where do I begin? To fight this fight, with all my might, Against the shadows of the night.
Poem
The Fibrotic Pull
At fifty-nine, beneath a heavy sky, The skin tightens, the breath a shallow sigh. The Raynaud’s blue, the fingers curled and short, A Scleroderma story, a grim report.
This is no “cellular” haze, no easy swipe, This is the NSIP Fibrotic Type. A tougher battle, where the lung tissue starts To creep and harden, in its basal parts.
The scanner shows the truth, a clearer view, A lung that’s shrinking, worn and few. The fissures pull, the bundles crowd, A Volume Loss proclaimed aloud. The lung tissue, in its final throes, Is pulling inward as it goes.
And with this pull, a bitter show, The airways have no place to go. The scar tissue yanks, a cruel design, It stretches them along the line. This Traction Bronchiectasis, a plea, A rigid, widened airway, hard to see As anything but a fibrotic art, A lung that’s slowly pulled apart.
Reticulation, a fine-spun web, The ground-glass fading, on the ebb. And though the pleura still is spared, A heavy burden has been declared. The tightening, the breath so thin, The fibrotic type, has settled in.