Recently, I have found myself drawn to reading the obituaries at the back of the British Medical Journal. I’m not exactly sure why this is, but something about it feels important. It feels like a paramount final act, acknowledging the fifteen faces printed in the magazine.

Initially, I thought I was reading them as a force of habit, rather than as a result of any emotional attachment to these strangers. However, the journal had barely made it into my house this morning when I decided it should be opened as a matter of urgency.

I stared at the faces today – many of them sadly predictable. Retired physicians, however valuable, succumbing to long standing illnesses. Perhaps I am flawed for this trait, but I digest expected deaths rather easily, particularly in elderly people. I very much believe in the rationale of a good death versus a lengthened end-of-life.

Having said that, the fallible human in me struggles to apply this logic to unexpected deaths, or deaths that leave devastating holes in the lives of others. Deaths that leave the living alone, deaths that shatter families, deaths that leave holes in children’s hearts. I struggle to process these.

I found one obituary particularly hard to read, and that was of a surgeon, born the same year as my mother, who had died of cancer and left two teenagers behind. It is one of those tragic stories that makes absolutely no sense, and it hits home, because so many of the features are parallel with my own life.

The truth is, sometimes being a medic makes us feel invincible. Sometimes we are lured into the false sense of security that we can see the beasts coming, because we have spent years learning to look for them. This is not true. The cruel irony is that breast surgeons can still get breast cancer, and paediatricians can still lose their children.

These obituaries make me remember why I became a doctor, but they also remind me to keep living; I think that is a wonderful, generous, and selfless parting gift from individuals who spent most of their lives giving to others.

If I am being honest, I don’t always live my life to its maximum potential. Whilst I am cautious to not over-emphasise a concept that is difficult to maintain, I am so very grateful to be alive, and as long as I make the most of my years, perhaps a smiling photograph of me will be shared one day, remembering the life I once lived.