The patient.

You went to the front in 1941, and by 1942 you were blown up by a mine. "He was a good guy," your teammates said of you in the past tense, as if you were already gone. The men lying next to you in the ward were constantly changing. You couldn't remember their faces, tried not to even notice the people around you, or to ignore the foul smell of alcohol and medication. Some returned to the front, some to two meters underground, and some were discharged. Day and night in the military hospital, you prayed for survival, but forgot to pray for another visit to the front. You wanted to defend your homeland, to be a real man. And all your wishes and dreams were listened to by a nurse, who, after three months of treatment, became your partner. You enjoyed talking with this woman, and a couple of times you even thought it would be nice to propose to her after the hospital, or at least ask her out, in the hopes of a future together. God heard you, and you survived, underwent a difficult operation, but after the doctor’s verdict you didn’t want to live at all.
"I'm sorry, but you have a Group 2 disability," the doctor said then, bluntly.