My Experiences with CSR Central Serous Chorioretinopathy

My Experiences with CSR

Central Serous Chorioretinopathy

It was the middle of November 2023. Life was quite busy at that time, with work, painting, and frequent trips home from Golakganj. My wife was expecting our second child, so there was naturally a little more activity at home as we waited for the new member of our family. The Cricket World Cup was underway, and India was playing exceptionally well under the captaincy of Rohit Sharma, the Hitman.

It was a Sunday, and an important match was scheduled to start around 12:30 pm. Just before the match was about to begin, I was at my art school, which shares a boundary wall with our home. As usual, I was enjoying my time with art. While showing two students how to draw eyes, I suddenly felt something unusual in my left eye.

I went to the hand pump and splashed some water on my eyes. When that didn't help, I returned home and tried some eye drops. But nothing changed.

A little later, I tried to watch the cricket match on television, but my vision seemed blurry. Covering one eye and then the other helped me identify the problem. It was my left eye.

At first, it didn't seem serious. Perhaps it was just a temporary issue that would resolve on its own. But when I looked at a plain wall, a large black spot appeared right in the centre of my vision. People's faces were difficult to recognise, and reading became almost impossible.

Clearly, this was not an ordinary eye problem.

That evening, I went to a spectacle shop where an eye specialist usually visited. Unfortunately, no doctor was available that day. The shopkeeper checked my vision using a computer and advised me to consult an eye doctor as soon as possible. He suspected that the problem was somewhere inside the eye.

The following day, accompanied by Jayanta, I visited Dr R. Kumar, a renowned eye specialist. After examining my eye, he said that fluid had accumulated inside it. While explaining the symptoms, I mentioned the long hours spent painting and wondered whether that could be responsible. He didn't offer much explanation, but prescribed some medicines and eye drops, saying that the problem might resolve soon.

That brought some relief, although the exact nature of the condition remained unknown.

A few days later, a visit to Sri Sankaradeva Nethralaya in Guwahati seemed necessary for a more detailed examination. The hospital was crowded, and the wait was long.

First came the preliminary examination by an assistant, followed by eye drops to dilate the pupils. At the earlier visit in Kokrajhar, drops had been applied to only one eye, whereas both eyes were dilated this time. The near vision, I was told, would remain blurry for an hour or two.

Further tests followed. Being alone made things a little difficult, especially with the mobile screen almost impossible to read because of the drops. Somehow, the test fees were paid and the examinations completed.

The doctor confirmed the presence of fluid and prescribed medication for three months, with instructions to return for a follow-up. Once again, the concern about long hours of painting was mentioned, but there wasn't much discussion about it.

Then came an unexpected moment. While the doctor was talking to another doctor working at the computer, a short form caught my attention: CSR.

That was the first time the name of the disease came to my ears.

The doctor also advised avoiding stress, smoking, and alcohol. Back home, the internet became the main source of information. Reading about Central Serous Chorioretinopathy helped explain why the vision had changed so suddenly. Still, there was hope that everything would eventually return to normal.

The next few days became a period of waiting and watching.

Back at the workplace in Golakganj, the daily routine continued. At night, I often went for walks with my friends there. They were more like younger brothers to me than colleagues, as all of them were younger than me. During those walks, the streetlights seemed unusually bright and uncomfortable to look at.

Another habit developed during motorcycle rides with my friend Subir Kar. Usually sitting on the pillion seat, I would look at the small writing on his helmet to check whether it was becoming easier to read. It was a simple way of tracking the progress.

Fortunately, improvement came quite quickly. Within about a week, the black spot disappeared, and the small writing on the helmet became readable again. That was encouraging.

However, the vision still wasn't normal. Straight lines appeared wavy, and objects looked distorted through the left eye. The black spot had gone, but the strange distortion remained. Perhaps it would disappear with time—that was the hope.

On 6 December 2023, our son, Parthib, was born. His arrival brought plenty of happiness to the family. By then, the most severe symptoms in my eye had subsided, although the distorted vision continued.

Three months later, it was time to return to Sri Sankaradeva Nethralaya for the scheduled follow-up. After the examinations and tests, the reports showed a considerable change. The measurements of the left retina appeared similar to those in the earlier report, although their significance and the normal range of retinal thickness were still unfamiliar to me.

Then the doctor confirmed that the fluid was no longer present.

What a relief! Naturally, the expectation was that vision would gradually return to normal now that the fluid had disappeared. But there was still a problem. Even after explaining that the fluid was gone, the difficulty in seeing properly through the left eye remained.

The doctor's response, in Assamese, was something along the lines of, "If there is a flood, there will be destruction."

The meaning wasn't entirely clear at the time. The good news about the fluid was enough to keep spirits up. Only later did it become clearer that the retina could be left with lasting damage even after the fluid had resolved.

Painting gradually resumed, although not with the same frequency as before. The bigger challenge was editing painting videos, which had become more difficult than it used to be. The difference in vision was noticeable during work, particularly when dealing with fine details.

More reading followed, with searches about CSR and its long-term effects. The question remained: why was the vision still distorted when the fluid had disappeared?

During the summer vacation in July 2024, a trip to Chennai was planned in the hope of finding better treatment. Perhaps a more experienced specialist or a different approach would offer some solution.

The journey was made with my brother-in-law and sister-in-law, Subra and Sweety.

Apollo Hospital was the first stop. After a manual examination, the doctor said that the retina in the left eye had suffered permanent damage and that it could not be reversed.

That was difficult to accept, especially after travelling so far. Still, there was another hospital to visit, and hope had not completely disappeared. Sankara Nethralaya, one of India's renowned eye hospitals, was the next destination. Perhaps the doctors there might have something different to say.

This time, the visit was made alone.

Almost the entire day went into examinations. Various machines and testing methods were used, although the names of all those tests are now forgotten. One after another, the examinations continued, with the hope that the final consultation would bring some encouraging news.

But the answer was the same.

The retinal damage was permanent, and there was no treatment that could restore it to its previous condition.

After visiting two major hospitals and undergoing so many tests, hearing the same conclusion twice was difficult. Tears began rolling down my cheeks.

After leaving the hospital, I took an auto-rickshaw. The driver occasionally glanced at me through the mirror. Perhaps he noticed my tears and wondered what had happened. Maybe he wanted to ask something, but the language barrier stood between us. Or perhaps he simply chose not to disturb me. Whatever the reason, neither of us said much.

I sat there quietly as the auto moved through the busy streets of Chennai. Outside, the city continued as usual—people going about their work, vehicles passing, and shops bustling with customers. Nobody knew what I had just heard inside that hospital. For everyone else, it was an ordinary day. For me, it was a day that had changed something in my life.

The tears were not just about losing part of my vision. There was also the disappointment of having travelled so far with hope and returned with an answer I had been trying not to accept. Perhaps a part of me had still believed that someone would find a way to make things right.

But that day, I had to face the possibility that my left eye would never be the same again.

Then, somewhere along the way, I decided to visit a large art supply shop. It was not a separate trip planned for another day. I went there directly from the hospital, carrying the weight of what I had just heard.

Perhaps it sounds a little strange. After receiving such disappointing news, why would someone think about buying painting materials? But painting had always been an important part of my life, and the thought of visiting an art shop came naturally.

Inside, there were brushes, colours, papers, and all kinds of art supplies. For a while, my attention shifted away from hospitals, test reports, and the future of my eyesight. There was so much to look at and so much I wanted to buy. As I moved through the shop, thoughts of future paintings began to return. Perhaps there were still new techniques to try, new colours to explore, and new paintings waiting to be made.

Of course, enthusiasm has its limits when the budget is involved! Several things made their way into my shopping bag, but plenty more had to remain on the shelves. Even on a difficult day, an artist cannot help wanting just one more brush or another set of colours.

That visit did not erase the disappointment of the hospital. The problem was still there, and the future remained uncertain. But being surrounded by art materials reminded me that the love for painting was still very much alive.

The doctors had told me that the damage to my retina was permanent, but nobody had told me to stop being an artist.

I left the shop with my purchases and continued with the rest of my journey. The day had begun with the hope of finding a solution for my eyesight, and the hospital had brought that hope to an end. Yet, directly afterwards, there I was, buying colours and brushes, thinking about the paintings I might create in the future.

Perhaps I was not ready to give up just yet—not on painting, at least.

After returning home, another kind of experience began, one I had never expected.

News of my eye condition gradually spread among friends, brothers, colleagues, and people close to me. Many came forward with suggestions. Some advised visiting Nepal for treatment. Others recommended wearing spectacles or practising yoga. There were suggestions about different remedies, exercises, and treatments, each offered with the hope that something might work.

I understood that these suggestions came from concern. Nobody wanted to see me struggling with my vision, and everyone wanted to help in whatever way they could. But after consulting specialists at two major hospitals in Chennai, hearing the same conclusion, and learning that the damage was permanent, such advice sometimes became difficult to deal with.

What made it more complicated was that some people simply refused to accept what the doctors had said. They insisted that excessive painting must have caused the problem. These were not strangers making casual comments; they were my friends, brothers, colleagues, and people very close to me.

Perhaps painting was the easiest explanation they could find. After all, I spent hours drawing, painting, and editing videos. But the fact that I painted for long hours did not establish that painting had caused my CSR. The doctors I consulted did not tell me that painting was the cause.

There was another curious thing. Some people found it difficult to believe that my eye had suffered permanent damage because my paintings still looked much the same as before. In fact, some of my later works were even better than my earlier ones.

From their point of view, everything seemed normal. The paintings looked good, the details were there, and the work was improving. So how could there be a serious problem with my eyesight?

That was the difficulty: the damage was not always visible to others.

A person can look perfectly fine and still have a problem that affects everyday life. My ability to paint had not disappeared, but that did not mean my vision was normal. Painting also involves experience, memory, hand control, and years of practice. Those skills do not necessarily vanish just because vision changes.

Sometimes, the repeated suggestions and disbelief hurt more than people probably realised. It is one thing to receive advice from someone who genuinely wants to help; it is another to have the experience and medical opinions repeatedly questioned by the very people whose support matters most.

Of course, nobody can be expected to understand exactly what another person sees through an affected eye. Nor do I expect everyone to understand the medical details of CSR. But accepting that a problem exists, even when it cannot be seen from the outside, would make a real difference.

My paintings continue to be a part of my life. They may sometimes require more effort, and editing videos is certainly not as easy as it used to be. Yet the ability to keep creating is something I value, not proof that my eye has recovered completely.

The vision might never be the same as before, but painting is still possible. Colours can still be mixed, new techniques explored, and new works created. The way of working may have to change, but the love for art has not disappeared.

Perhaps that is the most important thing I have learned from this experience: not every difficulty is visible, and being able to continue doing something does not mean that nothing has changed.