At 85, my grandpa is healthy and strong, but his biggest struggle is his fear of death.
He constantly worries about it, and it breaks my heart to see him so anxious.
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| For illustration purposes only |
“I’m 85 Years Old, and I’m Scared of Death.”
Grandpa sat in his chair. The room was still, the kind of quiet that feels too heavy.
I pulled a chair beside him. “Rough day?”
He sighed, “I’m 85 years old, and I’m scared of death.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
He looked down at his hands. “My chest feels tight. I keep thinking... what if this is it? What if I close my eyes and never wake up?”
I resisted the urge to say, “You’re fine.” We’d been through this before, and I knew reassurance only worked for a moment. “That sounds really hard.”
“It is. I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s like... my mind’s stuck on a loop.”
“What does your therapist say about it?”
“She said I need to get comfortable with not knowing.”
“But how do you get comfortable with something so... terrifying?”
I leaned in. “What did she suggest?”
“She mentioned trying an anxiety worksheet,” he said hesitantly.
“Something about writing down the fears, then categorizing it. I’m not sure how that helps.”
I nodded. “Sometimes, getting those thoughts out of your head and onto paper makes them feel less powerful. It’s about seeing the worry from a different angle.”
“But what if writing it down makes it more real?” he asked.
“That’s the thing—it’s already real in your mind. Writing it down just gives you a chance to look at it with fresh eyes.”
He was quiet for a moment. “She said I should practice saying, ‘Maybe, maybe not,’ when the scary thoughts come. Instead of trying to figure out if it’s true.”
“Have you tried it yet?”
“A little.” He hesitated. “Like yesterday, after everyone left.
I felt that tightness in my chest, and my mind jumped to the worst-case scenario. Instead of asking you if I was okay, I just said to myself, ‘Maybe it’s something, maybe it’s nothing.’”
“How did that feel?”
“Strange. But... the feeling passed. Slower than I wanted, but it did.”
“That’s progress, Grandpa.”
“I thought at my age, I’d have it all figured out. Instead, I’m afraid of something I can’t control.”
“No one has it all figured out, no matter their age. But every time you sit with the fear and let it be, you’re getting stronger.”
He closed his eyes. “What if I try the worksheet?”
“I think that’s a good idea. It’s not about fixing everything in one go. Just one small step.”
He opened the notebook, the anxiety worksheet resting on his lap. His handwriting was a little shaky but clear.
The worksheet encouraged him to categorize his thoughts, and he started filling it in.
1. Thoughts that distract me:
"Did I lock the door? What if someone breaks in while I’m asleep?"
2. Thoughts that aren’t helpful in problem-solving:
"I need to figure out how to stop being afraid of dying. But how? What if I never find an answer?"
3. Thoughts that don’t need my attention:
"My neighbor said his brother had a heart attack. What if the same thing happens to me?"
4. Thoughts that make me anxious or stressed:
"My chest feels tight. What if it’s a heart attack?"
5. Thoughts that I enjoy overthinking about but shouldn’t:
"If I can just find a way to be sure I won’t die soon, then I’ll feel better."
6. Thoughts that aren’t my responsibility:
"I need to stay healthy so the family doesn’t worry about me."
“I never realized how many of my thoughts fall into these categories.”
“It’s a lot, huh?”
He nodded. “But seeing them here... I don’t know. It makes them look smaller.”
“That’s good.” I leaned in. “What would your therapist say about these thoughts?”
“She’d tell me not to figure them out.” He smiled a little. “She’d say, ‘Maybe, maybe not.’”
“She also said to separate things I worry about into what I can control and what I can’t.”
“Things I worry about that are out of my control...”
“When I’ll die.”
“If I’ll get sick.”
“Whether my family will be okay after I’m gone.”
“Things I worry about that are in my control...”
“Taking my medication on time.”
“Going for short walks when the weather is nice.”
“Doing my breathing exercises when I feel anxious.”
He looked up at me. “It feels... lighter. Seeing the difference.”
“That’s the whole idea, Grandpa. You can’t control everything, but you can focus on what’s right in front of you.”
“I thought writing this would make it worse, but... it doesn’t. It’s like I can breathe again.”
“You don’t have to have all the answers. You just have to keep showing up, just like this.”
His eyes, damp with vulnerability, met mine.
“I don’t want to waste the time I have left being afraid.”
“I know.” I squeezed his hand. “And you’re not alone in this. We’ll figure it out together.”
He nodded, a tear slipping down his cheek. “I just want to enjoy the days I have... however many that is.”
I wrapped my arm around his shoulders. “Then let’s start today. We could go through old photo albums, or maybe write down some of your favorite stories for the kids.”
A soft smile broke through. “I’d like that.”
I realized that helping Grandpa wasn’t about fixing his fears but walking with him through them.
It’s okay to not have all the answers—to simply be present, to listen, and to hold space for the hard conversations.
And maybe, in those quiet moments of honesty, we’d both find a bit of peace.
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This story reflects one perspective and is shared to spark discussion and connection. While inspired by real situations, some details may have been altered for privacy and clarity.
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