Between Knowing and Forgetting: A Conversation with My Grandad About Death

I have interrupted my four-part series that I have been working on to share this blog. Partly because I want to capture it whilst it is fresh in my mind - though I doubt I will ever forget - and partly because writing has become my crutch, a way to process the inevitable.

Last night, my grandad, who has dementia, told me he was dying.

His words were not hesitant. Nor were they spoken in fear. They were quiet, certain, as if he were stating a simple fact. And then, with the same quiet finality, he told me not to save him.

There was no room for false comfort, no pretence of hope, no desperate clinging to borrowed time. Just the unvarnished truth of a man standing at the threshold, choosing me - only me - to witness his acceptance of it.

Yet even as he faced the certainty of his own death, he reached for understanding.

“I'm forgetting, love. Why can’t I remember anything?” he asked. “Is this it? Have I gone crazy?”

For a brief moment, the usual haze of dementia lifted. He was present - fully present - aware of the gaps in his mind, aware that something was missing but unable to grasp its shape.

I could have soothed him with half-truths, shielded him from the weight of his own knowing. That is what we are often encouraged to do with dementia patients: to preserve comfort, even at the cost of truth. A practice called “therapeutic lying”. But something about his clarity, about this moment, about this conversation, demanded honesty.

“You have dementia, Grandad.”

A beat of silence. Then…

“I haven’t, have I? For fuck’s sake. That explains a lot. So, I’ve just got to get my head together then?”

“No, you don’t have to do anything,” I told him. “It isn’t down to you. It isn’t your fault. All you have to do is just be.”

He reached out and stroked my face - deliberate, gentle. My nan lay beside him in the single bed placed in the room near his home-based hospital bed, silent, her tears soaking into the sheets. She had heard everything but said nothing. He did not know she was there.

Palliative care has said he has only a few weeks left. His body is slowly shutting down.

And yet, even now, he teaches me - just as he always did. Not through instruction, but through being. How to meet the inevitable with acceptance.

Why Does He Only Speak to Me About Death?

This is not the first time my grandad has confided in me about dying. He does not speak of death to my nan, nor my aunt. With them, he talks of exhaustion, discomfort, pain - but never finality.

Why?

At first, I questioned whether it was a reflection of love, or rather, a lack of it. Did I mean less to him than they did? Did he seek to protect them from pain but did not feel the need to protect me? In search of answers, I turned to literature (like I always do), research and a myriad of perspectives in the hope of making sense of his choice.

But the truth, as always, is more complex.

Selective Disclosure in the Dying

Research in palliative psychology suggests that the dying often choose specific confidants for end-of-life conversations based on three key factors:

Existential Rapport – A history of discussing deep, philosophical topics together.

Perceived Psychological Readiness – The belief that the listener can bear the weight of the truth.

Emotional Protection of Others – The desire to shield loved ones who may not cope with the finality of such discussions.

For years - long before dementia took hold - my grandad and I engaged in candid, often unflinching discussions about life and death, conversations that set us apart from the rest of the family. His irreverence, laced with gallows humour, was not something I sought to temper or evade, but rather a perspective I met with curiosity and a shared appetite for existential inquiry. Together, we explored the weight and transience of existence, not as something to fear or suppress, but as an inevitability to be reckoned with, examined, and, in its own way, understood.

Maybe, even now, somewhere beyond the reach of conscious memory, he remembers that. Not in words, but in a deeper, instinctual sense.

Selective disclosure is a well-documented phenomenon. Studies show that terminal patients withhold their true thoughts from those they perceive as fragile or emotionally unprepared (Breen et al., 2013). Instead, they confide in those who can meet them in that space without turning away. My nan is already breaking beneath the weight of his illness. My aunt, too, carries her grief heavily. He protects them in the only way he can - by not saying the words out loud.

But with me, he does not need to.

Or maybe I am only searching for an explanation that soothes me.

The Lucidity of the Dying: When Dementia Loosens Its Grip

Dementia is a thief. It steals language and memory. But sometimes, just before the end, it loosens its grip.

Terminal lucidity - also known as paradoxical lucidity - is a recognised phenomenon in which dementia patients experience brief moments of clarity in the final days or weeks of life (Fenwick et al., 2009). Accounts of this phenomenon span centuries. Families report that loved ones who have been non-verbal for months suddenly speak in full sentences. Those who have been lost in confusion recognise people they had long forgotten.

The precise cause remains unclear. One theory suggests that terminal lucidity is linked to dying brain activity - a final surge of organised function before the body shuts down (Mashour et al., 2019). Another, proposed by Nahm & Greyson (2009), argues that as the brain deteriorates, its rigid structures weaken, allowing for deeper, previously suppressed memories or thoughts to emerge.

Whatever the mechanism, last night felt like one of those moments.

For the first time in a long time, my grandad was fully aware. He knew that he was forgetting. He knew that something was wrong. And, in that brief window of clarity, he finally understood his dementia.

“For fuck’s sake,” he had said. “That explains a lot.”

And then, as suddenly as it had arrived, it was gone.

Dying as a Social Process: The Need to Bear Witness

We often conceive of death as a biological event - a shutting down of the body, an irreversible failure of physiological systems. But death is not simply the cessation of bodily function. It is the conclusion of a life, and a life is not just a body moving through time; it is a collection of relationships, memories, and meanings. A life does not simply end; it must be witnessed.

Sociologist Tony Walter (1996) argues that dying is a social process, one in which the need for recognition, for understanding, does not dissipate but intensifies. The dying do not always seek comfort; often, they seek truth. In their final moments of knowing, they turn to someone who can hold that truth with them - someone who will not flinch in the face of it, nor attempt to soften its edges.

Last night, my grandad chose me.

Not for comfort, but for truth.

Not because I could save him, but because I would not try.

The philosopher Martin Heidegger (1927), in Being and Time, described death not as a distant, impersonal event but as an integral part of human existence - one that gives life its meaning. To be human is to be towards death, to exist always in relation to our own mortality. But what Heidegger does not fully explore is how this relation is shaped not only by individual awareness but by the presence of others.

Sociologist Allan Kellehear (2007) expands on this in his work on the social nature of dying. He argues that death is not a solitary act, nor is it confined to the moment of biological expiration. It is a process embedded in social interactions, in unspoken understandings, in the quiet witnessing of decline. The dying person, even when physically alone, is never truly solitary; they remain situated within a web of relationships, histories, and expectations.

And yet, not all relationships can bear the weight of dying. Some recoil from it, unable to acknowledge its presence. Others, despite their love, attempt to deny it, to resist it through medical interventions, hopeful platitudes, or sheer force of will. But the dying do not always need resistance; sometimes, they need recognition.

My grandad did not tell my nan that he was dying. He did not tell my aunt. But he told me. Probably, for the most part, because they are resisting the inevitable.

Psychologist Robert Kastenbaum (2000), in his work on death systems, speaks of the importance of witnessing in the dying process. To die well is not only to be cared for but to be seen - to have one’s existence, in its entirety, acknowledged to the very end. This is not just a psychological need; it is an existential one.

In many cultures, rituals of dying serve this function. Anthropologist Philippe Ariès (1974) describes how, in the Middle Ages, dying was a public event, a communal affair in which the individual was surrounded by family, friends, and sometimes even strangers, all bearing witness to their transition. In contrast, modern death has become increasingly medicalised and private, often occurring behind closed doors, in hospitals or hospices, where the dying are distanced from the social world they once inhabited.

But even in the most isolated circumstances, the need for witness remains. The dying often seek out one person - a confidant, a bearer of last words, someone who can hold their truth when they can no longer hold it themselves.

Last night, I was that person for my grandad.

The Fragility of Understanding

I do not know if he will remember our conversation today. Maybe the moment of lucidity has passed, slipping back into the fog of his dementia, dissolving as though it had never been. Or maybe, somewhere in the depths of his being, he still carries it - wordless, ungraspable, but present nonetheless.

But in that fragile moment - caught between knowing and forgetting, between acceptance and loss - I learned what it truly means to love someone who is dying. It is not about staving off death, but about holding their truth when they can no longer hold it themselves. It is about allowing them to simply be, in all the honesty and complexity of their final chapter.

So maybe my grandad will forget that he told me he was dying. Maybe he will wake today and the knowledge will have vanished. But for that brief moment, he knew. He held it.

And when he could no longer hold it, I did.