Not all those who die have their face printed on the front page of a newspaper. Neither do they have their funerals shown live on television or have programme producers changing their schedule to provide a two-hour tear-jerker.

The last thing I want is to offend the memory of Annabelle Vassallo, who died last Monday after a long illness borne with great fortitude. Neither do I want to hurt all those who are grieving for her − her relatives and friends, some of whom I have known since my teenage years.

I never had the honour of meeting Annabelle. I respect the energy and determination she showed when she was fighting her battle against the cancer that devastated her life and took it away. I believe that her courage and willpower served as an inspiration to many others.

But Annabelle was not the first person to die young from a deadly disease. There have been many others who suffered just as much as she did, perhaps more, perhaps less. There have been many others whose life was cut short. They deserve a mention too.

Like Annabelle, they fought hard to survive. Like Annabelle, they suffered, physically and emotionally. Like Annabelle, they wanted to live, but they finally succumbed. Like Annabelle, they were an inspiration to the ones who were close to them in the last weeks and days of their life.

None of them went on TV to plead to be remembered. They knew that their family and friends would never forget them; they did not need to ask.

And none of them went on TV to speak about their agony and distress. They suffered in silence, together with the ones who knew them best.

The news of their passing did not make the headlines, and none of their relatives or friends made a preposterous claim for him or her to be declared a saint.

Yet they were people like Annabelle, less exhibitionist perhaps, but still people who suffered great pain, who slowly lost their strength, and who were concerned about the emotional stress they were putting on their

relatives and friends, who could do nothing except try to comfort and assist them in the last moments of their lives.

And so I find it strange that her case was treated so differently from the hundreds of other people who have gone through, or are going through, the same agony.

I find it stranger still that her funeral was considered to be more newsworthy than the funeral, held on the same day, of Bishop Emmanuel Gerada, who had played a pivotal role in bringing about peace between the Church and the Labour Party in the 1960s. He was part of history. If there was a funeral that should have been broadcast that day, it was his. If there was a funeral that should have been top news on the 8pm bulletin, it was his.

Like Annabelle, there are many others who are suffering now. Over the past two months I have been going to Mater Dei Hospital once or twice a day. And I have come across so much suffering that is kept within the confines of the family and the closest of friends.

I have seen people crying in corridors, as others tried to offer words of hope and

consolation. Some fail to stop the tears streaming down their cheeks, while others sob uncontrollably.

I have heard patients moaning as the morphine they are given wears off and the pain returns, and have seen their relatives watching helplessly at the side of their bed, while others leave the ward because they cannot take it anymore.

I have seen the terror in patients’ eyes as their bed is wheeled out of the ward on its way to the operating theatre, and anxious relatives walking up and down the corridors if the patient is not returned to his or her place at the expected time, fearing the worst.

I have heard people expressing grave concern about their loved ones as they gather in waiting rooms before visiting hours, and then put on a happy face as they approach the

bedside.

I have seen mothers and fathers staring blankly after receiving bad news about their infants or children, and trying to put on a brave face so as not to look worried while their heart breaks into a million pieces.

I have seen adults bite their lower lip and hold back the tears as doctors made it clear that their mother/father has only days to live.

I have seen the loneliness of patients who lie in bed for hours, days, without anyone

coming to visit them.

I have seen hope turning to despair, and despair turn to hope.

I have seen the desolation and anguish of those who have realised that there is nothing else that can be done.

I write this article for all these people, those who never had Peppi Azzopardi chasing them with his cameras, and yet have their own story, perhaps one that is more inspirational, to tell.

I write this article for those who may not even get an obituary in the newspaper announcing their death, or words of appreciation in a letter to the editor.

I write this article for those whose funeral is held in a small chapel, with only a handful of people present for the last goodbye.

I write this article for those who still remember their loved ones who passed away many years ago, and do not need to be told not to forget.

I write this article for those families who have lost a father or mother, brother or sister, son or daughter, young or old, through illness or tragedy, and who deal with their bereavement in the quiet of their homes.

I write this article for those who are suffering in a hospital bed and the people who are suffering with them, and do not go on TV to speak about their anguish.

I write this article for all those who have

suffered and are still suffering in silence.

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