I have only 28 years left to live!

Trying to explain just how bad my relentless worrying has become over the years is difficult. As a child, I spent most of my time worrying about having a brain haemorrhage because my sister’s best friend had one, or choking to death on a chicken bone because I once got one caught in my throat during a Sunday roast.

Being wired this way, choosing a career as an emergency controller for the ambulance service was probably… well… how can I put this… the worst f**king decision of my life. Despite being proud of my role in helping to save numerous lives over many years, the damage it did to my psychological infrastructure, combined with my tendency to worry, has been brutal.

Now 54 and medically retired due to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (surprise, surprise!), my inclination to worry has never really relented.

Right now, in fact, I am worried. I’m worried that you will think I’m a terrible writer because I used the word “because” to begin a sentence in the last paragraph. I was always told at school that you should never start a sentence with “because”. So you’ve probably left by now and I’m talking to myself.

But if you’re still here (please be here!), my latest worry was born from an online research survey I completed the other day about life expectancy. The results were not good.

The survey asked all about my age, health, habits and family history. Of course, I was immediately worried about answering it, but I agreed because it was a paid survey. The money would help alleviate at least one of my many worries.

But the questions themselves were a worry.

Have you ever smoked? If so, for how long and how many per day?

How much alcohol do you drink each week?

What is your height and weight?

Do you have any long-term mental health conditions?

Are you a complete vegetable?

OK, so I made the last question up, but after answering the others there seemed only one possible outcome. Let’s just say the numbers weren’t exactly screaming “Olympic athlete”. Add in the countless hours I’ve spent sitting opposite psychologists trying to work out why I’m so bloody worried all the time, and things weren’t looking promising.

Then came the verdict.

You have 28 years left to live.

Twenty-eight years.

Bloody hell!

Unfortunately, it wasn’t able to give me an exact date. Otherwise, on that particular day I’d probably be found performing multiple bungee jumps while drinking my favourite whisky… naked.

But what the result did do, with all the subtlety of a punch in the face, was force me to confront something I’ve spent most of my life avoiding.

One day, I am going to die.

Yes, of course I knew this already. You don’t spend thirty years working in the emergency services without realising that death is inevitable. I’ve seen enough sudden tragedies, accidents and medical emergencies to understand that none of us are getting out of this alive.

But spending whatever years I have left catastrophising and worrying about every possible disaster like a conspiracy theorist on steroids is, quite frankly, not my idea of a good time.

So I have now made an important decision.

I will no longer be a victim of my worries.

When I look back at all the things I’ve worried about over the years, the reality is that most of them never came to fruition. That’s because worries don’t actually exist in the here and now. They are merely echoes of a future that may never arrive, built upon narratives I have constructed in my own mind.

Gosh… that was philosophical.

Since receiving my result, things have changed dramatically for the better.

The first thing I did was phone my parents for a chat. They are much older than me and probably shouldn’t take the test! Normally, our conversations would somehow find their way back to one of my latest worries, but this time they didn’t.

Instead, we talked about the good things in life. We reminisced about family holidays, laughed about old stories, and shared memories that had been gathering dust for years. It was one of the most beautiful conversations I’ve had with them in a very long time.

I could sense they were surprised by my change in attitude, although they never said anything. We simply enjoyed the moment.

We were on the phone for hours!

As a writer, persistent worrying has often been my greatest obstacle. It’s almost impossible to write well when all you can think about is how terrible your work might look to an audience. For years I’ve sat staring at sentences, wondering whether they’re good enough, clever enough or interesting enough.

But rather unexpectedly, something has changed.

Over the past few days, my writing has taken on a shape and confidence I didn’t even know existed. I’ve entered two pieces into competitions and completed a micro-fiction story that I genuinely believe is among the best work I’ve ever produced.

This wasn’t because I suddenly became a better writer overnight. But because I stopped worrying about being one. So instead of fretting over every sentence, I simply got on with my writing. It felt incredible!

This new, slightly less worried version of me is ready to take on the world again. I may only have 28 years left, but I think they may well be my best.

Thanks for reading.

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Originally published at I have only 28 years left to live! | by Simon Aylward | ILLUMINATION | Oct, 2026 | Medium