My Dad lost both his legs in the second world war. He was fighting in Italy, near Messina, when him and two friends stood on an anti-personnel mine. My Dad had one leg off at the knee, and the other one above the knee, about mid-thigh. He had shrapnel embedded in his hands and arms for his whole life.
A couple of days later, in hospital, my Dad realised that he had a decision to make: he either had to decide to make the best of what life had given him, or he could decide to feel sorry for himself and the unfairness of life and become a miserable person. He decided to make the best of his life.
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