Few things scare humans like the prospect of living, dying alone

I never met Jimmy Grammer. As far as I know, we were never even in the same place at the same time. But I find myself wondering tonight who this man was.

This was his driver’s license photo, but I can’t say he looked very happy when it was taken. Maybe he was having a bad day. Maybe the camera operator pushed the button before he was ready. We’ll never now.

Jimmy Grammer was found dead last Tuesday at the age of 70 — in the cheap motel in a seedy part of town where he had lived since 2011. As far as anyone knows, he had no family.

Motel employees hadn’t seen him in a few days, according to the newspaper account, so someone went to check on him and found him dead in his bed.

Every time I see a story such as this one, I feel a shiver of dread. I look into the eyes of the dead man or woman and I wonder how this person ended up so alone in life. But it’s not just empathy for strangers, of course. Their deaths scare me.

These people who die alone with no families represent my worst nightmare. It’s hard for me to imagine anything worse than dying alone with no loving family to care about me. That possibility terrifies me.

I assume Jimmy Grammer wasn’t always alone. Although his parents are probably long dead, he might have had siblings. Maybe he still does. Maybe he was once married. Someone must have loved him very much at one time. Maybe he had children.

Surely someone loved him. At some point.

How did he lose the love and companionship of those who once might have held his hand and called him family? How did he end up poor and alone in a cheap motel?

Most of us start our lives believing we had success and love ahead of us. Almost everybody is optimistic when he’s young. Jimmy Grammer was born just after World War II and he grew up in a booming economy, so I would think he had plenty of reason to have hope for himself.

He probably dreamed of success. He might have imagined he could get rich. Maybe he even made a lot of money and lived in a fine house at one time. And he must have felt love and known close companionship along the way.

I’ll never know Grammer’s story. I’ll never know the details of any of these people whose pictures I periodically see in the newspaper. I just know the coroner’s office is looking for family or friends or — well, anybody — who knew these people. They need someone to claim the bodies.

And I can’t help feeling a tinge of fear for myself, because I don’t want to end up like these people.

I do not want to die in my bed alone.

I do not want to die without love.

I do not want to die in a cheap motel in a miserable place.

I do not want to die without a fortune to give to people I love.

Yes, this fear is about me, not about Jimmy Grammer. Every death such as his sends a shudder down my spine — and it feels like a whispered voice in my heart warning me not to live in such a way that I’ll end up alone and unloved.