The optic disc, a fragile gate,
Where nerves converge and vision waits,
A swelling starts, an unseen plight,
Papilledema steals the light.
Increased pressure from deep within,
A battle that the eyes begin,
Both sides affected, both eyes blur,
As unseen dangers start to stir.
The mind it signals with alarm,
A headache’s throb, a visual harm,
A doubling of the world’s design,
The creeping loss of sight, a sign.
Beneath the swell, a darker cause,
A brain’s distress, a silent pause—
Meningitis, tumors grow,
Or fluid rising, overflow.
A hemorrhage, a hidden bleed,
Intracranial forces feed,
Hydrocephalus, trapped and tight,
The nerve compressed, denied its light.
Nausea stirs and vision fades,
As hope within the shadows wades,
Yet early hands can intervene,
To save the sight and change the scene.
With diagnosis, treatment’s call,
The swelling fades, the disc stands tall.
But swift the action must arise,
Before the dark consumes the eyes.
So heed the signs, the subtle shift,
For papilledema is no gift.
It speaks of pressure’s cruel demand—
An urgent need to understand.
