Indeed. My confidence in the .45 is based on personal experience, at the receiving end. About 20 years ago, a co-worker and I agreed to go to the firing range together. We met at my house and, as we were getting into the car, he proudly displayed his new M1911. Somehow, it discharged. I saw the flash and felt what I thought was muzzle blast on the outside of my left thigh. I was not knocked off my feet but I did rock backward and had to struggle to maintain my balance. I looked down and saw a ragged hole, with blood actually spurting out and soaking my blue jeans. I sat down heavily on the curb and said, quite calmly, "You shot me, you ****ing idiot. Call an ambulance."
I did not feel any pain at first, just a numbness like the aftermath of an electric shock. The co-worker panicked and started running around in circles. He declared that he could take me to the hospital and there was no need for an ambulance. I started to feel faint and the pain was starting to set in, like a red-hot poker rammed through my leg and being twisted around. I got up and struggled into the house with my last ounce of strength. It had been all of 45 seconds since the gun went off. I got to the phone and called police emergency (we didn't have 911 service yet) and told them that I had been shot. I dropped the phone and collapsed on the couch.
At that point, the pain was unbearable, I could not move, and I was barely concious. Panic was setting in, I knew rationally that help was seconds away and I would be alright, but my lower brain was telling me that I was bleeding to death in a hurry.
I heard sirens a minute or so later and realized that I had failed to tell the emergency operator that the shooting had been an accident. The neighbors told me later that about 4 cop cars had converged on the house from different directions, to find my clueless co-worker standing in the front yard with his .45 still in hand. They levelled their guns on him, threw him to the ground, cuffed him, and then came looking for me. I had revived a little when the cops burst into the living room and found me, though the pain had gotten even worse. I considered letting my co-worker meditate on gun safety in the county jail for a while, but quickly dismissed that idea and told the cops the truth. They were very, very sympathetic and encouraging.
As I was being loaded into the ambulance one of the cops said, "Sheesh, a .45. Well, partner, if it's any comfort, I've seen people get hurt a lot worse with those things." He was quite right, it was a very minor wound by .45 standards. The bullet had passed cleanly through my thigh muscle without hitting a major artery or a bone, but I still required a transfusion and 2 days in the hospital. The co-worker was charged with illegally discharging a firearm and disorderly conduct resulting in bodily injury. He got probation on the condition that he pay the various costs, a matter of several thousand dollars. The cops found the bullet in the front yard, almost undamaged, and brought it to me in the hospital. I still have it.
My dad was in the combat engineers in N. Africa and Italy from 42 to 44, and then in Greece supervising the elections and getting shot at by Communists until 46. As a non combat arm (ha!) he was issued the M-1 Carbine, but he threw it away and carried a Garand and a 1911A1. He said he saw plenty of wounded GIs that had been shot by the Kraut Lugers or Walthers, but he never saw a live German with a .45 hole in him.
I repeat for emphasis, you are one lucky man. (And your coworker was an idiot, but you know that.)