My Hysteroscopy: Routine Procedure to Medical Trauma
This is what happens when female pain is dismissed as standard care.
I have had my pain dismissed or neglected in the past, but never have I been so exposed to the gender pain gap until I walked into that procedure room to have my hysteroscopy, drowning in false pretences, inaccurate information, and medical gaslighting.
They told me it would be simple.
A “routine procedure,” they said. I read up on it. The material all described it as a simple, quick hysteroscopy. I should expect some mild discomfort, nothing to worry about. I was told I’d be in and out in no time and that I would be able to go straight back to work. That reassurance was meant to soothe me, but now, looking back, I realise how profoundly misleading it was. I wish I’d have read content from real patients about their experiences of this beforehand. Because when I did research this after my experience, their accounts were much more realistic and honest.
What I went through during my hysteroscopy was nothing short of traumatic. And this is an experience so many others will be all too familiar with.
The Pain Hit Like an Explosion
From the moment the procedure began, something felt wrong. Immediately, my baseline level of endo pain shot through the roof. The pain wasn’t mild or manageable — it was indescribable. I wanted to curl into a ball and scream as my body cramped and set itself alight with pain, attempting to reject the foreign object invading it. I wanted to lash out and push everyone away from me. I never wanted anyone to touch me again. It was as though my insides were being pulled apart, every nerve lit up and screaming. I remember gripping two nurses’ hands, one on each side, sobbing, gasping, my whole body tensing against the agony. The nurses looked apologetic, stressed, devastated, watching me writhe in pain. I thought I might break their hands I was grasping so tightly.
They told me to take deep breaths, but breathing felt impossible. I found myself holding my breath out of panic as my body went into shock under such a huge amount of stress. My vision was blurred from tears. I could hear myself making sounds I didn’t recognise. They were guttural and desperate. It felt like I had been living in this pain forever and it felt like it would never end. I don’t know how long it took, but it felt like a lifetime.
And then the words that really broke me. “Okay, we’re nearly done. I just need to take the biopsy.”
I knew this was going to be the worst bit and I wasn’t sure my body could take any more. I sobbed harder. I squeezed the hands harder. When they took the biopsy, I thought I might pass out from the sheer intensity of it. I thought this is it, this is when I black out. I can still feel it now. It still brings tears to my eyes remembering it. I thought my body was going to give up on me. I didn't know how it was still fighting.
Before the procedure I was offered no pain relief. They mentioned that gas and air could be provided if I really needed it.
But there was no sedation, no local anaesthetic, nothing to blunt the raw violence of what my body was being forced to endure. When they finally gave me the gas and air, it was far too late. My body was already in shock. I tried it out of desperation. But the gas and air did nothing. It didn’t touch the sides. I was trembling uncontrollably, drenched in sweat, nauseated to the point of vomiting. My blood pressure crashed through the floor. I remember thinking, How can a person be in this much pain and still be alive?
The Aftermath No One Prepared Me For
When it was over, my blood pressure remained dangerously low. I had to remain on the bed on a tilt trying to prevent me from losing consciousness. I vomited profusely, my stomach in agony with every retch and heave. Once I had stopped vomiting, I collapsed into a wheelchair, managing to pull on my own clothes. It took much more effort than it ever should.
After that, I wasn’t comforted or cared for. I was simply wheeled round to recovery and left there, shaking and barely coherent. Someone handed me a biscuit and a cup of tea, as if that might somehow put me back together. I was told to rest a bit, that my blood pressure would “come back up soon.” And then… “Have a good day”.
It didn’t. And I didn’t.
I sat there in a blur of shock and humiliation, utterly alone. I wondered how other people did it. How other people had coped in the past. Eventually, someone told me I could leave when I felt ready. But I wasn’t ready. I could hardly walk. Each step sent a deep ache through my pelvis, my whole body wincing with every tiny movement. I questioned if I could even make it.
There was nobody to pick me up. Nobody to help me to a taxi. Just me, broken, dizzy, and trying to pretend I was okay enough to get myself home where I would sit alone in the aftermath, dealing with this trauma.
I remember standing outside the hospital, leaning on a wall for support, trying to work out how to move without collapsing. I managed an agonising taxi ride home. Every bump, harsh brake, and swerve sending me into a spiral of pain. On my couch at home I broke down. I called my mum,180 miles away, and asked if her partner could drive and come and get me. That’s how desperate I was. That’s how shattered they’d left me. Luckily my Mum and her partner Chris are the most supportive people in the world, and no questions asked within 3 hours I was collected and on my way to my Mum’s.
Living with Medical Trauma
In the days and weeks that followed, I kept replaying the procedure in my mind. The pain. The sounds. The way no one seemed to really see me. I felt violated by what had been done to my body, and gaslit by how casually it had been framed as something “routine.” It’s now been 9 months and I still remember the pain. I fear that those memories will never go away. That pain, those indescribable feelings are etched into me forever.
When I tried to explain to others what it was like, I found myself saying things like, “I don’t have the words,” or “I’ve never felt anything like it.” Because how do you describe pain so intense it makes you question your own survival?
I couldn’t shake the thought: if I had been properly warned, if I’d been offered real pain relief or sedation, maybe I could have braced myself. Maybe I wouldn’t still be flinching at the memory. But I wasn’t given that choice. The decision to deny me comfort, to deny me autonomy, to deny me critical information, was made for me.
To the Women Who Are Next; here’s what I wish someone had told me
Hysteroscopies are often presented as “simple” outpatient procedures. For some, maybe they are. But for many of us, they are not. The pain can be excruciating. For me, someone who is in pain every second of every day, that pain was something I had never experienced. The trauma can linger long after the physical wounds have healed.
We need honesty. We need informed consent that actually means something. We need pain relief, not as an afterthought, not “if necessary,” but as a standard of care.
So...
Don’t be afraid to ask for pain relief. Don’t be afraid to advocate for yourself. You deserve honesty, dignity, and transparency.
Because what happened to me should never happen to anyone else. I hobbled out of that hospital feeling broken in a way that no one acknowledged and that nobody, except those who have had this experience, could ever understand.
But this is me acknowledging it now.
The pain was real.
The trauma was real.
My feelings are valid.
And the system that allowed it to happen still needs to change.
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