My readers tell me they enjoy learning the genesis of a story. The idea for Hannahâs List came into being in September 2008, when I had the honour of dining with Paul and Maggie (Peale) Everett. Maggie told me about a friend of hers who knew she was dying. Like my character Hannah, she gave her husband a list of women she felt would make him a good second wife. I was deeply touched by what Iâd heard and recognised immediately what an act of love such a letter would be. It wasnât long before the premise took shape in my imagination. Soon after that, the central character of Michael, the young paediatrician, appeared. And the rest isâ¦this story.
While this is peripherally a Blossom Street book, itâs more along the lines of Twenty Wishes in that it takes place away from A Good Yarn, Lydia Goetzâs store. If youâve read the Blossom Street stories, youâll remember Winter Adams, the owner of the French Café. And, naturally, youâll be getting updates on some of your favourite characters. Still, this book belongs to Michael and in many ways to Hannah, whom I grew to love and admire in the process of writing the story.
When Hannahâs List begins, sheâs been gone a year. She died of ovarian cancer, which is often called a silent killer. Ovarian cancer claimed my own friend, Stephanie Cordall, who was one of the original members of my Thursday morning breakfast group. I encourage you to check out the following website, which explains how to identify the symptoms: www.mayoclinic.com.
As always Iâm eager to hear from my readers. Your feedback has guided my career all these years. You can reach me either through my website at www.DebbieMacomber.com or at PO Box 1458, Port Orchard, WA 98366. USA.
I am not a sentimental guy. Iâve been known to forget Motherâs Day and, once, when Hannah and I were dating, I even let Valentineâs go unnoticed. Fortunately she didnât take my lapse too seriously or see it as any reflection of my feelings. As for anniversaries and birthdays, Iâm a lost cause. In fact, Iâd probably overlook Christmas if it wasnât for all the hoopla. Itâs not that Iâm self-absorbedâ¦Well, maybe I am, but arenât we all to a certain extent?
To me, paying a lot of attention to people because itâs their birthday or some made-up holiday is ridiculous. When you love someone, you need to show that love each and every day. Why wait for a certain time of year to bring your wife flowers? Action really does speak louder than words, especially if itâs a loving deed, something you do for no particular reason. Except that you want to. Because you care.
Hannah taught me that. Hannah. A year ago today, May eighth, I lost her, my beautiful thirty-six-year-old wife. Even now, a whole year after her death, I canât think of her without my gut twisting into knots.
A year. Three hundred and sixty-five lonely days and empty nights.
A few days after her death, I stood over Hannahâs casket and watched as it was lowered into the ground. I threw the first shovelful of dirt into her grave. Iâll never forget that sound. The hollow sound of earth hitting the coffinâs gleaming surface.
Not an hour passes that I donât remember Hannah. Actually, thatâs an improvement. In those first few months, I couldnât keep her out of my head for more than a minute. Everything I saw or heard reminded me of Hannah.
To simply say I loved her would diminish the depth of my feelings. In every way she completed me. Without her, my world is bleak and colorless and a thousand other adjectives that donât begin to describe the emptiness Iâve felt since sheâs been gone.
I talk to her constantly. I suppose I shouldnât tell people that. Weâve had this ongoing one-sided conversation from the moment she smiled up at me one last time and surrendered her spirit to God.
So, here I am a year later, pretending to enjoy the Seattle Marinersâ baseball game when all I can think about is my wife. My one-year-dead wife.
Ritchie, Hannahâs brother and my best friend, invited me to share box seats for this game. Iâm not fooled. Iâm well aware that my brother-in-law didnât include me out of some mistaken belief that Iâm an inveterate baseball fan. He knows exactly what anniversary this is.
I might not be sentimental, but this is one day I canât forget.
As a physician, a pediatrician, Iâm familiar with death. Iâve witnessed it far too often and itâs never easy, especially with children. Even when the end is peaceful and serene as it was with Hannah, I feel Iâve been cheated, that Iâve lost.