A close friend's father, whom I knew quite well, developed a brain tumour in his 50s. This must have been fifteen years ago, I'd say.
One day he found himself just standing in his own house, completely drawing a mental blank as to where he was and what he was doing there. The moment passed, but the experience frightened him enough to go for an immediate consultation and the diagnosis/prognosis wasn't good.
Surgeons did their best, but decline was fast and within a month he couldn't recognise his wife or children and, essentially, he wasn't sure who he was or what was going on for a lot of the time.
It was heart-rending for his family, but then, the day before he died, 'the old him' came back quite out of the blue, and although he was weak and disoriented, he was able to tell them all how much he loved them.
And then he died in the night.
I was at the funeral and his son, my school friend, told me--without reference to supernatural agency, I must add--that they felt blessed that they'd been given that single chink of light in an otherwise merciless experience. At the end of the day, it was the immediate family, me and another friend. His widow refused to sit there with a grieving face, put on some music they'd both liked and produced a bottle of Scotch, which we emptied while talking.
He was a good man--good company--with a dust-dry wit and a lot of zest for life.
The world would be a better place if he were still in it.
It makes me feel emotional typing the story.