What Anesthesia Silences

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Any time you undergo a medical procedure, there are risks. And it is the doctor’s job to review those risks. In my previous post, I recommended colonoscopy screening for all people at average risk starting at age 45. When you give consent for a colonoscopy, you are acknowledging that there are several risks including (but not limited to) bleeding, infection, and perforation.

But in this piece, I want to talk about a more subtle “side effect” or “risk” that is rarely discussed. Something we don’t talk about with colonoscopies or even other surgeries.

A patient rests under the care of a medical professional following surgery, as gentle light from the operating room illuminates the scene. Image created by AI.

In 2022, I completed a three-year training in Somatic Experiencing therapy, a type of therapy that explores how trauma can become stored in the body, often showing up later as physical symptoms. The training was hard. Of course, when you’re dealing with trauma, it’s never easy. The material is heavy, and the responses are visceral. As students, we were taught not just to understand trauma intellectually, but to notice our own physical reactions to what was unfolding in front of us.

In my second year of training, we dove into the topic of medical trauma. And when I say medical trauma, I mean the emotional and physical impact people can carry after experiences in the health care system—whether from a procedure, a complication, an unpleasant interaction, or simply the loss of control that can come with being a patient. Other students shared their own stories of trauma in medicine and, often, how they coped by avoiding doctors and hospitals at all costs. And they did this over and over (at least that’s what it felt like in my body).

Sigh.

I can honestly tell you I had a primal reaction (think ape secretly pounding the floor). I was angry, contentious, defensive, and a whole slew of other qualities you do not want to see in your trauma therapist. When people spoke, all I could hear was: doctors are to blame. It took me months to work through my own feelings of insecurity so I could truly hold space for other people’s hurt.

And that brings me to a specific kind of medical trauma I don’t think gets nearly enough attention. And one most doctors are not trained in or think about.

Anesthesia.

Now yes, technically, you can do a colonoscopy without anesthesia… but I would not recommend that particular journey. Most surgeries require some form of anesthesia. Even smaller procedures often involve local anesthesia injected into one specific area.

The word anesthesia comes from the ancient Greek: an, meaning “without,” and aisthesis, meaning sensation or feeling. So, anesthesia literally means without sensation. And honestly, when someone is about to pierce your skin—or other body parts—that sounds like a lovely plan.

A woman sleeps under anesthesia, surrounded by dream-like imagery during surgery. Image created by AI.

But what actually happens to the body during surgery (big or little)?

Your body still responds to stress. Your heart rate may rise. Your blood pressure may increase. If you’re breathing on your own, you may breathe faster. Anesthesia helps prevent that stress response (aka cortisol) from overwhelming the body. It interrupts pain signals, can create temporary unconsciousness, relax muscles, and blunt sensation. It also reduces the body’s autonomic stress response, helping keep vital signs more stable during a procedure. In other words: anesthesia is doing exactly what we need it to do.

This is all a good thing, right?

Yes.

BUT. (There it is again—that infamous word.)

What happens when a stress response gets interrupted suddenly and efficiently, especially when you have little or no memory of what happened? What happens when the body went through something significant, but the conscious mind has no real storyline to match it?

In trauma therapy, we talk about how the body may still carry pieces of that experience, even when the procedure is over and medically everything went “well.” Sometimes that looks like crying in the recovery room. Sometimes it looks like unexpected anxiety in the days after surgery. Sometimes it looks like irritability, restlessness, insomnia, or a vague sense that something feels “off.” And

sometimes it looks like… nothing obvious at all.

Why?

Because we are taught that the procedure is over, we survived, and therefore we should just be grateful and move on. But that is not necessarily true. The body had a thwarted survival response.

A woman lies on a hospital bed, appearing distressed and anxious following her surgery. Image created by AI.

Let me be clear: I think anesthesia is a good thing, and I recommend it. I’ve had anesthesia for my tonsillectomy, my wisdom teeth removal, my egg retrieval, my cesarean sections, and my two breast biopsies. And I would do it again. Every single time. Anesthesia was essential to my survival during those procedures.

But I also think we need to make room for a fuller conversation. We need to acknowledge that even when anesthesia protects us—and it does—the body may still remember that it went through something stressful. So if you cry in recovery, feel oddly anxious afterward, or just can’t explain why your body feels unsettled, maybe it doesn’t need to be dismissed. And if emotional or physical symptoms show up afterward that you can’t quite explain, that doesn’t mean you’re dramatic, weak, or “doing recovery wrong.” It may simply mean your body is still catching up to what happened.

Sometimes healing isn’t just about the incision closing or the pathology report coming back normal. Sometimes healing also means giving the nervous system a chance to exhale. It just needs to be acknowledged. Sometimes the bravest part of healing isn’t surviving the procedure. It’s listening to what your body says after it’s over.

Two friends share a warm embrace, symbolizing the comfort and understanding found in mutual validation and sharing space. Image created by AI.

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