Denny Wright’s journey into darkness

Six years ago, on Oct. 4, 2019, I was boarding a plane to Orlando, Fla., for an executive board meeting of the National Association of Police Organizations. The plane was taxiing for takeoff when I received a text informing me that one of our Locust Club members had been injured on a call. It was described as a “cutting or stabbing … more information to follow.” Of course, the additional details wouldn’t come through until we landed.

Dennison Wright was a dedicated police officer whose life changed forever in a split second. What happened during that 911 call was covered extensively in the media. The unimaginable loss of sight suffered by an officer responding to a call—so violently attacked and gravely wounded during a domestic disturbance call—generated widespread attention.

When I arrived at the hotel hosting our board meeting, I began receiving updates. The news felt like a roller coaster: first, he was alive but in serious, life-threatening condition—a relief that offered hope. Then came news that he had lost sight in one eye. Tragic, yes, but potentially manageable. I met with the NAPO president and informed him of what was unfolding back home. Our board has veteran police association leaders from across the country—a tight-knit group who support each other during crises.

As the meeting was about to start, I received shocking news—the doctors had concluded that Denny had lost sight in both eyes. As the meeting opened, President Michael McHale, visibly emotional, shared this latest update. Everyone in the room took it hard. We all understood the challenges of supporting an officer through severe injury and recovery—but none of us had ever faced helping someone suddenly plunged into complete blindness after such a tragic attack.

Officer Wright faced immediate challenges far beyond his job. Even basic tasks—moving around his home, cooking meals, recognizing people—required learning everything anew. He entered a new world from which recovery couldn’t restore what was lost.

I can’t count how many members I’ve supported through long recoveries from disabling injuries. A common theme is enduring the slow pace of recovery systems—often moving slower than a broken clock’s tick. Combine this grueling stress with losing your most relied-upon sense—your sight—and you begin to understand Denny’s struggle.

Denny has found solace in the love and support of his family, friends, and fellow officers who have heard him speak as a survivor with an important message for his peers. Since that tragic day, he has learned new skills like horseback riding and skydiving. But there is one thing he hasn’t mastered: how to deal with time.

Imagine being told you must wait days for something to happen—not just dismissing the delay but enduring agonizing minutes stretched into hours or even days while waiting in darkness.

Denny continues challenging himself with new experiences every day to move forward. Unfortunately, many outside his world don’t grasp the importance of reaching milestones or how difficult even simple approvals can be—for example, it took weeks just to get permission for him to speak at recruit classes and other events.

He is frustrated by how the city and department handle officer wellness. To quote Denny, “We know how to give an officer and their family a grand funeral, but we have no idea how to support an officer whose life is scarred by a totally disabling injury.”

That truth has stayed with me. Over the years, before retiring from the Locust Club, I met with local and state leaders to discuss how we could better respond to both mental illness in our communities and the wellness of officers who face trauma every day. When Daniel’s Law (pending legislation introduced by Sen. Samra Brouk and Assemblymember Harry Bronson after the death of Daniel Prude) was first being discussed, I tried to open dialogue about how to make reform meaningful on both sides—to improve responses to people in crisis and to ensure that the officers answering those calls are supported, too. Those conversations were difficult at a time of intense national scrutiny of policing, and many meaningful exchanges never happened. The pendulum had swung too far in one direction.

At the same time, Denny’s case exposed how unevenly we approach officer wellness. Leadership spoke often about the importance of mental health and recovery, yet when it came to specifics, the follow-through fell short. The city provided for a companion to help Denny with daily needs—a necessary and appreciated step—but what he needed most was purpose: the ability to contribute again. It took months before he was finally allowed to speak to recruits, to tell his story and help others learn from it. That delay, for a man who had already lost so much, was its own kind of injury.

Denny also continues to face a long legal process tied to his injury—a case that has dragged on for years with adjournments and motions. His goal has never been financial gain. What drives him is the hope that one day, medicine might offer a chance to regain even a trace of vision, and that the systems designed to protect those who protect others will not stand in the way.

The delays, denials, and missed conversations all point to a larger issue. We have built systems that know how to mourn loss but not how to sustain those who live with it. True reform—whether in policing, wellness, or community response—must include space for both accountability and compassion.

Mike Mazzeo is a retired Rochester Police Department investigator. He served as the former president of the Rochester Police Locust Club for 16 years.

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