“I remember your brother Jimmy crying one summer’s day, “Why do you cry, young Jimmy?” I heard your granddad say. “'Cause I can’t do what the big boys do, that’s why I cry,” said Jim, “Move over then,” said your granddad, and he sat down and cried with him.” - Golden Days, Benny Hill.
And that’s about the sum of it. Summertime, post stroke blues. Should be a song in there. It has got easier, I have to admit, I do get out and enjoy a little activity when it comes my way, but I can have a day that is gloriously filled with sunshine, and be confined to a curtained bedroom. Still, three years post stroke. I suffered SAD before stoke, only in the summertime, I’ve always been, particularly, more comfortable in Winter and Autumn. I never had a problem with overcast skies, but that was because I transitioned, in my yoof, to a place where clouds were scarce and endless blue skies and glare were dominant, people had electronic blinds on their windows to shut out the endless stream of light. It sounds strange, but I spent much of my teenage years living in drought country, where the thought of a bit of a shower from above would be cause for celebration. Perhaps, this has marked me. In any case. I am reminded this Summer of my own limitation, being unable to just get up and go. So many things have taunted me over the past few months, and I’ve just relinquished my duty and sloped away into the comfort of my bed. What a piece of work is man, how noble in faculty … hang on … that’s Shakespeare. I’m not seeking empathy or sympathy, just announcing the vexation post stroke when one’s mind wants to spontaneously seize the day but cannot.
