By his death, he gave me life.

As I watched his chest rise and fall, rise and fall, I knew the moment was coming. I wasn't afraid; I was grateful and humbled by a miracle akin to watching a newborn emerge into the world. I knew that when he took that final breath, he would breathe life into my soul. I had never been more certain of anything. And as I waited patiently to bear witness to this most miraculous transition from earth to heaven, I cried. I was overcome by a transformative peace, knowing that his purpose on earth was fulfilled in thirty-nine years.

When I was twenty-three years old, I recall my mom and my sister crying hard as they sat on my bed and watched me shove my entire wardrobe into black garbage bags as if I was a fugitive on the run. I was overly excited, not because I was leaving my chaotic home to live with my boyfriend, but because I was insanely in love and needed him like air; after less than two months of dating, we were living in delicious sin.

John-Marlon captured my heart initially by taking me on fabulous vacations and buying sprees. He bought us his-and-her wave runners and he bought me a car. He engulfed me with more love than I knew what to do with. I was in complete bliss, and I could no longer envision my life without this man. The gifts were great fun, but I was madly addicted to him. I had acquired the childlike wonderment that I went without as a kid, but I also took great pleasure in watching him live every moment as if it were his last.

As our relationship quickly approached the one-year mark, my feelings began to shift. I was so blinded by his tsunami of love that I failed to realize he was unwittingly becoming suffocated by what I thought was my codependency. Without notice, he broke free of the invisible chains that kept us interlocked physically and emotionally. In the process, he broke my heart. I was no longer his exclusive obsession.

I felt cheated. Although it was quite clear he loved me to no end, I was replaced ostensibly by random guy time, basketball, golf, fishing, paintballing, or just late-night drinks with anyone. His actions were becoming alarming because there was no rhyme or reason to his thinking. He was becoming a hard nut to crack. His obsessions and interests began to trump our relationship, and I felt more and more isolated in my own home. I didn't have a name for his behavior, but it was quite painful to believe that this issue was an issue he would have for life; this was not just a typical man thing that would come and go.

I loved that man more than anything, but I struggled with keeping up with his pace. He was a runaway train, and my entire marriage was about keeping up or being left behind. I now dreaded the very things I fell in love with—his passion, his impulsivity, his crazy spending, his generosity, and even his lack of communication. Yep, that's what I said—his lack of communication!

Our love and lust for one another ran so deep that it was all we apparently needed to sustain our relationship, I thought, but of course, I was insanely wrong. Not until three years into our relationship did I recognize that he lacked normal back-and-forth conversation, and it was a devastating blow because I realized for the first time how different he was. There was an uneasy feeling in my gut when I finally came to realize that all of our conversations were one-sided. They were all about his fixations, interests, and passions—never about my interests. I hadn't noticed sooner because I was willingly sucked into his vortex of euphoria—and that high was higher than anything I had ever experienced.

Life was grand, but it wasn't reality by any means! We were living in a wonderland. When real life came screaming out into the world at eight pounds, eleven ounces, reality slapped me hard in the face. Now with a baby in our lives, I realized I had two boys to raise.

In September 2000, I had a precious newborn, but I had also acquired postpartum depression. As I spiraled downward into my despair, my anger and rage grew. His insatiable appetite for more of everything and anything grew with my misery. He bought a boat, and then just a few months later, he decided to buy another boat when he discovered that the first one was too small to host his truckload of friends. We were a lower-middle-class family with two kids now, and I was not only embarrassed by his lack of judgment, but I had to start charging frantically on my credit cards to make up for the dysfunction in our family.

Once we had our third child, I began to suspect what was wrong with him. I considered divorcing him, as the thought of fixing him was too overwhelming; instead, I decided to keep quiet and deal with his erratic behaviors on a case-by-case basis.

In 2007, my son was officially diagnosed with Asperger's. I knew that I had to let John-Marlon know that he was on the spectrum too. Yep, I self-diagnosed my husband. I was fed up with living in a wild zoo, and I was about to drop the bomb that he was not as perfect and wonderful as he thought he was.

Asperger's syndrome is a developmental disorder that affects a person's ability to socialize and communicate effectively with others. Children with Asperger's syndrome typically exhibit social awkwardness and an all-absorbing interest in specific topics.

Doctors group Asperger's syndrome with other conditions that are called autistic spectrum disorders or pervasive developmental disorders. These disorders all involve problems with social skills and communication. Asperger's syndrome is generally thought to be at the milder end of this spectrum. (Mayo Clinic)

In 2009, when I first approached him about seeking a diagnosis, he laughed and declined my "gracious" offer. However, after a few months of incessant nagging, I was able to get him to agree. He was then somewhat curious to see if what I had proposed was true.

He jokingly said, "I will get checked out for Asperger's—as long as you get checked out for crazy."

We both laughed, and I responded, "Sure, whatever you want."

Our laughter was short-lived, though. Weeks later, he walked into the evaluation a man filled with great pride and swelling with machismo, but he walked out with head bowed down, completely emasculated. The diagnosis and the process destroyed him.

After six hours of evaluation, all of his weaknesses were brought to light. Although I was not in the room for the actual evaluation, I held my ear to the closed door to grasp snippets of the exchange behind it. From what I heard, he couldn't repeat simple passages back to the evaluator, and he had serious trouble reading just a few sentences. I was devastated; I knew he had a learning disability that went undiagnosed as a child, but this evaluation was horrific. It was painful for him to become aware of what he otherwise had suppressed or was completely unaware of.

When I received the official written report a few weeks later, its conclusions were difficult for even me to believe. He was given a battery of tests, and instead of detailing the results of each of them, I will relate a brief overview of his neuropsychological status:

Conversational skills are restricted. In addition, John-Marlon is easily influenced by others into doing things at times when judgment should prevail. Reasonable changes in routine are not always tolerated. Sensory issues are also present. John is not always able to recognize...