The house was quiet, as it always was on a Saturday night, but tonight there was something more to it, a deathly hush. There was no sound tonight, no hum of the central heating, not even the sound of the neighbours clattering about next door. Something was definitely missing. Unlike yesterday.

Yesterday the house was full of laughter and shouts, full of squeals of delight as everyone opened their Christmas presents. Hugs and kisses, joyful faces exchanging looks of thanks no words could convey. Only yesterday morning.

Then lunch, the Great Christmas Lunch! No one who was there will forget it in a hurry. It wasn't really lunch, more like breakfast, lunch and dinner rolled into one. No one had eaten all morning and everyone was hungry. Nearly everyone.

Eight pairs of knives and forks rattled on the table in mock impatience amid cries of "C'mon, where's the Grub" amongst others. Only seven pairs will rattle next year. Everyone "ooh-ed" and "aah-ed" as the two steaming turkeys came into view. All eyes followed the turkeys to the table. One pair didn't register the longing of the others. Everyone tucked in as the potatoes (roast and mashed), carrots, Brussels, corn, mushrooms and stuffing appeared and disappeared. Everyone that is, except one.

The eyes that didn't long belonged to the body that would not eat. Mum placed a small plateful in front of her. They stared into each other's eyes, a torrent of telepathic communication passing between them.

"You've got to eat something Susie"

"I can't mum, you know I can't. I'll bring it up if I try"

"Please Susie, for the rest of them."

"I can't!"

"It'll make everybody's Christmas Susie. They feel bad enough as it is."

"I can't!"

"PLEASE!"

All without a word spoken.

Many's the exchange been had consisting of those despairing pleas. Ever since I can remember, this conversation, these despairing words have been spoken, sometimes screamed and shouted, every mealtime.

She always seemed to be left out at mealtimes. Not by any doing of ours but by her own choice.

If we ever went out to eat we would be asked:

"Where's Susie? Why isn't she with you?"

Excuses would be made and any enquiries about her health would be met with:

"Oh she's fine, struggling along."

The painful irony of these words was disguised from everyone except those few who knew her well. She looked fine, she looked well, if a little thin, so everyone assumed there was no problem. She was on the mend, soon be as fit as a fiddle! This attitude, although hurtful, was hardly surprising.

"It's not a disease, it's all in the mind!"

It is very hard to convince people otherwise. This attitude, and the contrary knowledge we experienced, multiplied to give a pain even more acute than any suffered by Susie. And Susie suffered. But she didn't just lie back and take it. She struggled hard, painfully hard. All advice from medical specialists was taken to heart and faithfully executed. All to no avail. Gradually she slipped further and further away from us, both physically and mentally; little by little, ounce by ounce.

My own personal heartbreak paled beside the suffering of mum, and was possibly more harrowing to watch than Susie's own battle. The pain our family suffered, and still suffers, was kept quiet. We suffered in silence.

We too struggled. On more than one occasion, in desperation, we tried to force her to eat. Any observer would have thought we were trying to murder her, such were her screams and wild gesticulations. But she DID think we were murdering her by making her eat. We couldn't do any more than to love her.

She died on Christmas Night, quickly and quietly, relatives thankfully packed off home. She died the best way possible, although she died a thousand deaths along the way. She was always with you, but never there. She never made a noise, but now the house seems quiet without her. Too quiet. Something missing. A missing person.