This actually happened to me! Tl;dr: I vowed to kill myself if my impediment ever came back. Reneged due it returning only because alternative would've actually killed me. Story time! I took a tumble off a scooter and hit my head; walked back home and my wife took little convincing to get me to the hospital. They said I'd had a "traumatic stroke," which is of course the very best and least worrisome kind of stroke you can have, because doctors have the best bedside manner. Them: "You've just had a traumatic stroke—the very best kind of stroke!" Me: :| After keeping me for observation through the next day, some friends came pick me up and on the way home I was talking, then I stopped. "I'm…talking," I said, and my friends acknowledged that yes, I was speaking. Then I asked, "Is this what it's like talking, just talking, and not having anything in the way of talking? Like, I can just talk! I'm talking." I can pass super well, on good days—over the years my impediment grew to be less of a curse and more like a dance partner. We dance together, give and take, sometimes for better and sometimes for worse. When I don't have enough cognition to do my little moves which let me speak, it has full control. It's been years since I've cried over it, like I did through my early teenage years, though we're not friends. We're just dance partners, and sometimes the dance is a brutal one. "I mean my speech impediment," I explained to my friends, "it's gone. I'm just…talking." My friends acknowledged how that was great, but they clearly had no idea. And how could most people? "I'm never going back," I said. "Never." Internally, I saw with great clarity how great of a burden I'd carried for so long. Sure, it made my voice strong in other ways, but at what price? I'd never in my life entertained suicide. I would find a way to make it painless, but I was confident: there was no way I would ever go back. I would rather die. But over the next few weeks I began to feel weird. My thoughts weren't as clear as they had been, and I began sliding into deep funks where I stared off into space for long periods of time, oblivious to everything around me. I thought I was merely ruminating. Maybe I was right, even if I was wrong about what thought I was trying to let bubble up to the surface. Almost two months after the accident, at my little office one evening I essentially collapsed while taking a break from work. I was able to get myself up, and while I wanted to lie back down I was suffused with the sense that if I laid down right then I would never get back up again. I was able to shamble over to the nearest friend's place—they got me to an emergency room, and the next thing I knew it was daytime and I was in a hospital bed in different city—I could tell at a glance out the window. Also, a surgeon was draining old, coagulated blood through a tube attacked to a metal bolt which she'd screwed into my skull. It turns out the bleeding had never stopped, and the pressure of all the blood was only making things worse, and the vicious circle would have killed me if I hadn't gotten help in the few hours I had left. Recovering later at home, I was so glad to be alive that it would be weeks before I thought much about my speech impediment and how it had returned. I had days when I couldn't reliably conjugate verbs, so getting the words out was no longer my biggest worry. In the end, I'm still healing from severe brain damage but I'll take the tiny dancer in my head over the alternative. Maybe not the story you were looking for, but thanks for reading.