Doodling during the death list

One of the particular idiosyncracies of the hospital where I currently reside, eat, and work in is the 'death list'. The death list is the process in which all the patients who have died are read out and respective teams are asked to state where the death was 'expected' or 'unexpected'. The queerest  part of the process to me is the strange and unexpected responses people have. In most cases the expected deaths are received almost joyously, whilst those which are seemingly 'unexpected' are met with a mixture of surprise, horror, interest and general muttering. Personally I find there is an inexplicable desire to doodle during the death list. Strange feeling to think that one day I exist only as a list of personal details to be muttered about in a room of 30-40 strangers. Hospitals are weird.

Is it better to accept, account for, or overcome one's weaknesses?

Absences

I've not written for what feels like an age (and is probably at least  32,000,000 seconds). In that time I have had a fair few of those noteworthy moments that make you wish you were an elogant enough thought-former to string them together into some sort of meaningful sequence and tell everyone about it. Unfortunately, I'm mostly not, and as a result this collection of thoughts has withered almost to nothingness.

A small selection of things (in no particular order) have included: starting work, seeing a woman run over outside of work, seeing Iceland, sticking needles into people's backs/arms/eyes/feet/lungs/abdomens/necks, losing count of how many times I've said 'Im sorry', improving my hebrew (slightly), not improving my fencing or cello, and seeing many of my friends get married and have babies.

It hasn't been the easiest of periods, but I miss writing to you, and I promise to try and not forget to think here.