Wayne Michael DeHart  (July, 2024/January, 2026)

(Writer’s Opening Note: An earlier version of this personal memoir served as my entry into the 2024 VA writing competition in the category “Personal Essay – Inspirational.”  The 1,000 word limit in that situation obviously does not apply here on my website, thus I have added some pertinent background material, and also made some “descriptive” revisions that do not alter any of the facts presented herein. – WMD)

 

I am now in my 42nd year of a relentless, punishing onslaught from the Terror, an invisible, sinister scourge that leaves silent scars. It rips my gut and punches my brain senseless with lefts and rights and teeth-rattling uppercuts that I know are coming, yet am unable to repel. I continue to embrace the extended daylight of the summer solstice, and rail against the sustained blackness of late December nights, because most of the attacks, the total number of which has now accumulated into the thousands, have occurred during the hours of darkness. That first one, however, was a daytime ambush.

When the Terror first tore through me on a November afternoon in 1984, I was making a regulatory compliance presentation in a major bank’s meeting room in Florida. It attacked without warning, mid-sentence, rendering me frozen in place as my heart raced and I gasped for each breath. I was rushed to a hospital ER.

After several medical tests and numerous invasive questions, I was told that I had likely experienced a severe anxiety attack (i.e., a panic attack), which sure sounded better than a coronary event. Along with that sweeping assessment, I received a rather blunt, eyebrow-raising suggestion that I schedule a visit with a psychiatrist.

A shrink? Me? Yeah, right, I really want that nugget on my resume. Obviously, this was just a one-off, bizarre malfunction. My bad. Scary, but it’s over. See, I’m already past it. End of story. Where’s the Coke machine?

To my dismay, self-diagnosis proved to be a fool’s errand. The incident was a foreshadowing of a very long, very rough, road ahead.

For the next nine years, I was in and out of emergency rooms, after increasingly frequent bouts with unsettling, frenzied panic attacks, mostly after midnight – an exhausting trend that drained my energy and subverted my psyche. The Terror was taking its toll, and I was handling it poorly.

In the Spring of 1993, while working as a senior Fraud Investigator for the Federal government, the attacks became truly overwhelming. The position required frequent, extended travel commitments and my thoughts were racing 24/7. I had run out of excuses to myself, and I finally sought help. I proceeded to make my first visit to a mental health clinic in Lakeland, Florida. No miracle “cure” followed, but at least I had swallowed my pride about the whole “shrink” thing, and accepted that I could no longer make believe everything was fine after my workday was over. I almost always held things together in the daylight hours and still performed my job at a high level. But back at home, hours after the sun had set each day, the dangers in the darkness devoured me.

Though the ruthless and debilitating panic attacks did decrease somewhat in both frequency and intensity through the ensuing seventeen years of treatment, I wasn’t even close to being “healed.” Medication had lessened the distress factor somewhat, and I began to focus more easily, but I was deluding myself that I was finally, and fully, functional.

In 2010, a dozen years after moving back to my native NH, the Terror inexplicably ramped up its savagery, leaving me a housebound agoraphobic, resigned to living out my days in virtual isolation. Pervasive, gripping tension and a constant sense of disabling dread often made the most routine tasks seem insurmountable. I had also developed severe obsessive-compulsive behaviors by then as well. I discovered the hard way that unchecked hopelessness is truly an unforgiving foe.

In December of 2015, while waiting for a flu shot, I sat down at an upscale blood pressure machine at the local Rite-Aid store to kill time. I pretty much froze up when it displayed stunningly scary and unforeseen results while red lights flashed repeatedly across the top of the machine. Fortunately, the store was right next to a small shopping center which housed a VA medical clinic – a “CBOC” – right there in the small town of Tilton, NH. Though I’m a veteran, I had never thought to check into their services, or the qualifications required to make use of them. From the outside, the clinic was a nondescript storefront operation that was easy to look past. But that afternoon, upon learning of my alarming BP numbers, I dropped by without an appointment to say, in effect, “Help!” I answered a lot of questions and filled out many forms, which led to my first VA physical examination two weeks later. That thorough exam resulted in immediate resolution of the blood pressure problem via medication, and an unforgettable, life-changing referral.

My assigned PCP at the Tilton VA arranged for me to meet with a licensed social worker, Courtney, who was on staff there, and I began to see her on a weekly basis soon after. For nearly two and one-half years, I was counseled by that youthful, energetic, and inspiring paragon of tact, trust, and thoughtfulness. Add in a consummate blend of wit and wisdom. The result is a true personification of the word inspirational. She provided a calming, supportive presence that encouraged and enabled me to voluntarily disclose and discuss, in vivid detail, a series of traumas I had experienced while serving in the Army, primarily during my twelve month tour in Vietnam.

From that initial session on, she neither flinched nor frowned at my scattershot verbal digressions, or my nervous quirks and mannerisms. She frequently nodded approval or understanding, sometimes smiled knowingly, and maintained consistent eye contact – traits essential to quietly reassuring and encouraging me, as I struggled through the most intense of emotional narratives.

Those 29 months stabilized, then mitigated, the Terror attacks. As a therapist, Courtney had restored my dignity through constructive guidance. As a person, she had repaired my broken spirit with her compassionate manner. Yes, she would challenge me aggressively at times, usually when I balked just as I was on the brink of a breakthrough. I welcomed that strategy, recognizing that a dose of measured tenacity was exactly what I needed to push forward. She would readily sense when a break was warranted, then signal timeout by reaching for, and sharing, her stash of wickedly-enticing chocolate treasures. We’d sit back and decompress until my mood evened out and my memories became manageable. Then, back in our designated roles, I resumed detailing my recurring recollections of distressing events and incidents, and she responded by digging deeper with each tick of the clock.

Her instinctive nature, her unwavering resolve, and her ability to combine her learned professional skills with her innate people skills, carved out a safe space for me. As I strive nightly to recapture that space, I continue to miss her grit and authenticity. Hope was her greatest gift to me, and yes, it does indeed spring eternal. She always won the day, and I, and many others, reaped the rewards of that victory.

Now, almost eight years after she left the clinic for other assignments within the VA, the Terror still beats me down again, almost every night.

But now there is a difference. The stubborn presence of the surviving remnants of hope she had instilled in me live on. After the Terror empties its weapons, and departs before dawn’s first light, I shake off the fresh bruises and get right back up, beaten but not beat. Every damn time. (Well, almost every damn time.)

If she knew that, I believe she would nod her approval from afar, and flash that knowing smile one more time.

Being exposed to the standards and practices of “Courtney care” was one of the greatest blessings of my life. No matter how difficult the nights that still lie ahead, I am, and will remain, deeply grateful for those 29 months, and her generous gifts of guidance and grace.

Courtney, if someday, somehow, you run across these words, I want you to know that you are the reason I’m still here, and for that, I am, and will remain, immensely and appropriately thankful.

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(Writer’s Closing Note:  In addition her long-term impact as detailed above, Courtney also was the person who encouraged me to create this website in 2017, when it seemed like an insurmountable task to me, as someone who wasn’t – and still isn’t – the brightest bulb when it comes to being computer-savvy. She shook off my self-doubts, then provided the nudge I needed to follow through – thus one more positive outcome she helped create  in the “above and beyond ” category.)

 

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This paver lies in front of the Army Monument at the New Hampshire State Veterans Cemetery in Boscawen, NH. Placed as a reminder that she was there for many of us in life, and her memory and her spirit will remain with us once we are laid to rest here.

The paver, freshly cleaned, sits just under the cap.