She Sees Blue
My wife used to be the Michael Jordan of neurotypicals. Chief Communications Officer. Public Information Wizard. She could write the perfect condolence message, coach someone through a media scandal, and make small talk the way I breathe—effortlessly and out of necessity. She knew what to say, how to say it, and when to say it.
She once defused a conflict between department heads using only a well-timed metaphor and a tray of cranberry scones. I was consulting for her company at the time and could have witnessed this diplomatic miracle. But I was hiding in the restroom after I heard someone say, “icebreaker activity.”
Then, in 2018—just two years into her well-earned retirement—my wife was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. The disease didn’t knock. It wandered in, helped itself to the liquor cabinet, and nonchalantly announced its plot twist.
It started slowly. Misplaced words. Forgotten names. Blouses facing due north while she was clearly heading south. A quiet unraveling. But over time, the changes grew louder and sharper.
Now she’s hypersensitive to noise. Can’t stand background music. Whispers only. If you drop a spoon, she’ll immediately teleport to another room on a cocktail of disapproval and adrenaline.
Touch is off the table. Kisses, once her superpower, are a hard no. Hugs are tolerated under duress. Her diet has narrowed down to five items—all sweet, pale, and seasoned with nothing but calm and caution.
She smells everything, like a bloodhound crossbred with a French sommelier—if that sommelier specialized in identifying what I forgot to clean. She once sniffed the air and asked, “Did you use the basil from the other grocery store?” I had.
And the colors. She sees blue where I see gray—literally. She detects shades I didn’t know existed, like a hummingbird tuned to a spectrum the rest of us don’t know we’re missing. She once pointed to something and said, “That’s a happy blue.” I smiled and agreed. But all I saw was a leaden color that had forgotten how to dream.
As the changes continued, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd seen this before.
Restaurants? Not without a game plan. Travel? Only with noise-canceling headphones, blankets, and an escape route. Hugs and kisses? Strictly off the menu. And birthday cards? No more. The woman who once crafted award-winning messages now stares at a card like it’s a pop quiz on theoretical physics.
Yet some of what Alzheimer's took will not be missed: her anxiety, her perfectionism, and her need to exercise absolute dominion over the placement of every throw pillow—as if we were submitting our living room to a Scandinavian design exhibit.
She used to be the communicator and curator. Now I explain things to waiters, schedule appointments, arrange the throw pillows, and troubleshoot overstimulation like the tech support guy for her nervous system.
I read rooms. (Yes, me.) I scan for the well-meaning friend who helps too much, the conversation that’s too loud or too fast, and even the chair that squeaks. And then I steer her, subtly, toward calmer terrain.
In short: I’ve become the neurotypical.
I didn’t see that coming.
Nor did I expect that adapting to a mind as diverse as my own would be so demanding, yet bear such strange and beautiful fruit.
It’s love—with its shirt on backward. It's acceptance that asks where you got it. It’s setting the volume to a whisper, choosing presence over clarity, and learning to live in a world where color does the talking and texture demands you listen.
She sees blue where I see gray. She hears chaos in the background hum that the rest of us mistake for silence. And while the world wobbles like a ceiling fan clinging to its last bolt, I hold it still. Arranging throw pillows. Closing cabinet doors with the hush of a librarian. And relearning how to love someone more neurodiverse than I’d ever hoped to find.
She’s not the same. But neither am I.
And somehow, that feels like a beginning.