My father lost his leg in World War II. It was what the doctor’s called “a bad stump.” He was in pain every day. Every minute of every day. But I never heard him complain.
When he broke the ankle on his other leg the initial diagnosis missed it. Later, trying to set it, the doctor gripped Dad's foot and tugged on it, twisting. Dad gripped my hand. His face. He shook. He was clearly in agonies of pain, but not a word. Not a sound.
Ultimately, they had to break the ankle again to set it.
He was reportedly a hero when he lost his leg.
To me, he was a hero every day afterward.
When he broke the ankle on his other leg the initial diagnosis missed it. Later, trying to set it, the doctor gripped Dad's foot and tugged on it, twisting. Dad gripped my hand. His face. He shook. He was clearly in agonies of pain, but not a word. Not a sound.
Ultimately, they had to break the ankle again to set it.
He was reportedly a hero when he lost his leg.
To me, he was a hero every day afterward.
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