The Memory My Body Didn’t Forget
A story about consent, memory, and listening to the body.
The time I cried during my cone biopsy was long before I knew anything about medical consent. I knew why I was there, but I had no idea what the procedure would actually feel like—or what it meant to be in a teaching hospital with so many people in the room.
It’s been thirty-five years and two kids since that day in college. I remember lying on a paper-covered table, staring at the ceiling tiles while tears slid into my ears. The doctor said, “Just a little pinch,” but what I felt was deeper, sharper, and nothing like a pinch. I felt scared, surprised, and alone.
I tucked that moment away.
I didn’t talk about it.
I didn’t even think about it. Totally forgot about it.
But my body didn’t forget.
Fast Forward to This Year
I needed a hysteroscopy. We’d attempted an in-office sample earlier, but it wasn’t enough, so the topic came up again.
When my doctor mentioned trying the procedure in-office a second time, I winced.
She caught it immediately.
She paused.
She asked questions.
She explained options.
She clearly clocked my body language and checked in with me.
This was a very different experience from my college years. This time, consent and choice were woven into the conversation.
For years, I thought my unease around medical procedures came from visiting my dad after his open-heart surgery—seeing him connected to tubes and wires. It made sense to me. He didn’t make it in the end. I used to call it “little t trauma.”
But on the morning of my hysteroscopy, this other memory rose from deep inside—quiet, old, and sharp:
That moment on the table during the cone biopsy in college.
My younger self crying silently.
My body bracing without support.
It was the reminder I didn’t know I needed.
The Choice I Made for My Body
Because that old memory resurfaced—and because I know myself better now—I was able to make a choice that felt safest for my nervous system.
Not because it’s what everyone should do.
Not because it’s automatically better.
But because it was the right situation for me.
When I arrived, I put one hand over my heart and my other hand over my lower belly. I breathed slowly, telling my body:
Inhale love.
Exhale fear.
Pain-free? Pretty much.
Emotionally supported? Yes.
Comforting for me? Absolutely.
(And for anyone wondering, the hysteroscopy results were fine—no cancer.)
Why “Routine” Procedures Don’t Always Feel Routine
Clinicians perform these procedures every day. For them, they are routine.
But for the person in the paper gown?
Your legs are in stirrups.
Your pelvis is exposed.
Bright lights overhead.
Strangers near the most vulnerable parts of your body.
Even when everything is clinically “normal,” the body may interpret the experience differently.
Some people get tense.
Some get quiet.
Some shake or cry.
Some faint—a close friend of mine had a vasovagal episode after a prostate biopsy. His vision tunneled, his skin went clammy, and his body went limp and collapsed. Simply said, nope.
These reactions aren’t dramatic or embarrassing.
They’re biology.
The nervous system doesn’t negotiate.
It responds.
Every body is different, and none of these responses mean anything is “wrong” with you.
How I Prepared My Body (And Why It Helped Me)
This isn’t medical advice.
And honestly, it’s probably going to sound a whole lotta… woo.
It’s just what supported my nervous system:
Hand on heart, hand on belly.
A way of telling my body I’m with it—not abandoning it.
Slow, intentional breathing.
A direct message to my parasympathetic system: “We’re okay.”
Explaining to my body what was happening.
I know, I know. But it worked.
Choosing a setting where my body could settle.
Especially since my body remembered that earlier procedure.
Taking my time afterward.
Sitting, sipping water, letting my body reorient.
These were support strategies.
They don’t eliminate discomfort entirely.
They help the body stay in partnership with the mind.
Why This Matters More Than We Think
Most of us know to be “good patients”:
Stay polite.
Don’t complain.
Don’t slow things down.
Don’t make it awkward.
But ignoring discomfort doesn’t make it go away.
It buries it.
And buried experiences—like mine from college—tend to resurface when we’re older, wiser, and finally ready to choose differently.
(There’s even research on this—how the body stores past experiences and brings them forward when something in the present echoes the past. [link])
You deserve to feel informed, seen, and supported.
You deserve collaboration, not compliance.
And your nervous system deserves a seat at the table.
Final Thoughts
I didn’t write this as a guide for what you should ask for during a medical procedure. Every person, body history, doctor, and clinic is different—and not everyone has the same access to settings or support.
This is simply a story about:
remembering
listening to your body
attuning to what helps you feel safe
and letting those truths shape your choices
If an old memory resurfaces before a procedure, it doesn’t mean you’re weak. It could be your body getting ready to tell you what it wished you’d known back then:
You’re allowed to feel safe.
You’re allowed to speak up.
You’re allowed to choose what supports you.
That’s not being difficult.
That’s honoring your whole self.
If this resonated with you…
I write about connection, embodiment, nervous-system wisdom, and the moments our bodies carry quietly for years.
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Thanks for reading!
Lanae