My father said the same, as he approached his 70th birthday. He wasn’t a religious man, but he was a good man, one of the best. He seemed to have decided that as the Bible says ‘three score and ten’, that was going to be his lot, and he was depressed about it, as he was the carer for my mum. I was sufficiently worried about him at Christmas (his birthday) to visit my parents again three weeks later.
I was glad that I did, as he died suddenly, five weeks after his 70th birthday. My dear mum joined him less than two years later, after telling me that he had been coming to sit on the bed with her every day as she slept in the afternoon, during her last illness. She said that on one occasion he was holding the hand of a small boy, whom she identified as her brother Charlie, who had died before she was born when he was only 2 years old.
It was all strangely comforting, in a way.