Sometimes the people meant to heal us become the source of our deepest wounds.
When this story reached me, I felt that familiar tightness in my chest that comes with holding someone else’s pain. An eighteen-year-old had trusted me with something that happened when they were eight: a routine orthodontic procedure that was supposed to be simple, safe, routine. Instead, it became a defining trauma that continues to shape their relationship with their own body, their trust in medical professionals, and their fear of the very treatments meant to help them.
As a registered nurse with twelve years in the healthcare profession, I’ve witnessed the daily miracles of modern medicine. I’ve seen lives saved, pain relieved, hope restored. But I’ve also seen something that haunts me: how easily the healing profession can become a source of harm when we forget that every patient is a whole human being with a history, with fears, with the fundamental right to dignity and informed consent.
This survivor’s story isn’t unique. It’s heartbreakingly common. And it’s a mirror that every healthcare worker needs to look into, no matter how uncomfortable the reflection might be.
The Child Who Felt Everything Too Much
They were born different—a neurodevelopmental condition that made the world sharper, more intense, more overwhelming than it is for most of us. Pain that others might describe as a “pinch” felt like being stabbed with a knife. Sensations that most people tolerate were unbearable.
“I have a neurodevelopmental condition that among many things, makes me more sensitive to pain than the average person. While most people, despite not enjoying getting injections, tolerate them. I, on the other hand, have always found them unbearably painful.”
Picture this child—already living in a world that felt too loud, too bright, too much—being told repeatedly by healthcare workers that their experience wasn’t real. That it was “only a little pinch.” That they were overreacting, being difficult, making it worse than it was.
“I always believed that the nurse was lying when they said that it would only be a ‘little pinch’. To me, it felt as if I was being stabbed in the arm with a knife.”
This is where medical trauma often begins: not with malicious intent, but with the casual dismissal of a patient’s lived experience. When we tell someone their pain isn’t real, when we minimize their fear, when we treat their very real neurological differences as behavioral problems, we plant the seeds of medical trauma that can last a lifetime.
This child learned early that their body’s signals couldn’t be trusted by the people meant to help them. That their “no” didn’t matter. That running, screaming, and even hitting healthcare providers was still not enough to make the pain stop or the violation end.
The Day Trust Died
At eight years old, they needed two teeth pulled and their frenula cut. A routine procedure. The kind of thing that happens in orthodontic offices every day. Their only experience with anesthesia had been gentle: a mask, some deep breaths, drifting off to sleep peacefully.
But nobody told them this time would be different.
“I was never told what the process was for my surgery, denying me any amount of informed consent, or at the very least, information.”
Think about this for a moment. An eight-year-old child with known pain sensitivity was brought into a medical setting without any explanation of what would happen to them. No preparation. No consent. No acknowledgment that they had the right to understand what was about to be done to their body.
They sat in that aging chair, their mother beside them for comfort, trusting that the adults in charge would keep them safe. That trust was about to be shattered in the most devastating way possible.
“That is until the anesthesiologist brought out the syringe.”
What happened next reveals everything wrong with how we sometimes treat children in medical settings:
“The same old story repeated once again as I screamed, yelled, and desperately struggled to escape from that dreaded needle as a rubber tourniquet was put on my arm. I hardly noticed my mom getting ushered out of the room as I was restrained. I was completely helpless now. What could an eight-year-old do against two grown men?”
An eight-year-old child, already terrified and in pain, was separated from their parent and physically restrained by adult men. Their mother—their primary source of comfort and protection—was removed from the room while they were held down against their will.
Let that sink in. The person this child trusted most to keep them safe was sent away while strangers held them down and did things to their body without their consent.
When Healing Becomes Violation
What happened next was traumatic in ways that go far beyond the physical pain:
“And in this state of panic, I never noticed them give me nitrous oxide before plunging the needle into my arm. I began to see reality unravel before my eyes as tears continued to stream down my cheeks. I noticed time slowing down and sounds growing increasingly deeper as I lay there, helpless, alone, and afraid, not knowing what was happening, why it was happening, what would happen next, or if it would ever end.”
This child was drugged without their knowledge while in a state of terror. They experienced the disorienting, frightening effects of nitrous oxide while already panicked, restrained, and separated from their parent. Their perception of reality began to distort while they were completely helpless to understand or control what was happening to them.
“I barely managed to get one coherent sentence through my tears and terror: ‘Why is my voice so low?’ And then, I passed out.”
The image of this terrified child, drugged and restrained, managing to voice one confused question before losing consciousness, is burned into my memory. This should never happen to any child. This should never be considered acceptable medical practice.
But it was. And it happens every day, in medical facilities across the country, to children whose experiences are dismissed as “difficult behavior” rather than recognized as trauma responses to medical violence.
The Scars That Don’t Show on X-Rays
Ten years later, this survivor is eighteen years old and still living with the consequences of those thirty minutes in an orthodontic office:
“It has been ten years since those events, but I am still impacted by them. Despite many of my memories from the time fading somewhat, this one remains unusually vivid.”
Medical trauma has a way of crystallizing in memory, creating vivid, persistent recollections that can be triggered by seemingly innocent medical encounters. The brain holds onto these experiences with devastating clarity because they represent moments when our fundamental sense of safety and bodily autonomy was violated.
“Although the times of disturbing flashbacks have long since passed, I still avoid certain situations out of fear. I remain terrified of general anesthesia, especially intravenous, fearing that I may relive those experiences the next time I undergo surgery.”
The fear isn’t irrational—it’s a perfectly logical response to having been traumatized in a medical setting. Their nervous system learned that medical procedures mean helplessness, violation, and terror. Now, every time they need medical care, their body remembers.
“Rubber tourniquets trigger these memories, especially when they are used on me, such as when my blood is drawn.”
Simple medical supplies, things that healthcare workers handle dozens of times per day without a second thought, have become trauma triggers. A rubber tourniquet isn’t just a tool for drawing blood; it’s a reminder of being restrained and violated.
“As an eighteen year-old, I face the prospect of wisdom teeth removal, and all that entails, which likely includes many of the things I fear. To say I’m nervous is an understatement. It is a level of existential dread that words cannot adequately describe, which lingers over me every day.”
At eighteen, when they should be focused on college, relationships, and building their future, they’re consumed with dread about necessary dental care. The trauma from age eight has stolen their ability to approach medical care with basic trust.
The Questions That Haunt
The most heartbreaking part of their account is the litany of questions that reveal just how completely that childhood experience shattered their ability to trust medical professionals:
“I wish I could get over my trauma and fears, to trust the people who are there to keep me healthy, but I subconsciously distrust their every move. How would I know that I won’t be restrained? How would I know that I won’t experience the unraveling of space-time? How would I know that I won’t feel terrified, helpless, and unheard as temporal hallucinations bring about a terror worse than sleep paralysis ever could? How would I know that my fears won’t come true ever again?”
These aren’t the questions of someone being unreasonable or dramatic. These are the questions of someone whose trust was systematically destroyed by people who were supposed to heal them. Every question represents a specific memory of violation, a specific moment when their humanity was ignored.
How would they know they won’t be restrained? Because they were restrained at eight years old.
How would they know they won’t experience terrifying drug effects? Because they were drugged without their knowledge while already in terror.
How would they know they won’t feel helpless and unheard? Because they were made helpless and their distress was ignored.
These fears aren’t irrational—they’re evidence-based. Their evidence just happens to be their own traumatic experience at the hands of healthcare providers.
When Healthcare Workers Forget Their Humanity
As a registered nurse, reading this story forces me to confront uncomfortable truths about my own profession and the broader healthcare system. How many times have I seen children’s distress dismissed as “difficult behavior”? How many times have I witnessed medical professionals prioritize efficiency over empathy, compliance over consent, getting the job done over maintaining dignity?
How many times have I been complicit in creating medical trauma because I was focused on the task rather than the human being?
This story is a mirror for every healthcare worker who has ever:
- Told a patient their pain wasn’t as bad as they said it was
- Proceeded with a procedure despite obvious patient distress
- Removed a parent or support person because it was “easier” to work without them
- Failed to explain what was happening during a medical procedure
- Prioritized efficiency over informed consent
- Dismissed a patient’s fears as “irrational” or “dramatic”
We need to have an honest conversation about how healthcare culture can desensitize us to patient suffering and turn us into perpetrators of the very trauma we’re supposed to prevent.
How Healthcare Professionals Can Do Better
Reading this survivor’s story alongside countless others, and from my own experience on the other side as a patient myself, has convinced me that we have a crisis of compassion in healthcare. Not because healthcare workers are inherently uncaring, but because the systems we work under make us become drained very easily, and as people who dedicate ourselves to caring for others, we tend to be awful about caring for ourselves—so we end up pouring from an empty cup.
We’re overworked, understaffed, and pressured to see more patients in less time. We’re trained to focus on medical problems rather than whole human beings. We develop emotional armor to protect ourselves from the weight of suffering we witness daily, and patient and patient family interactions can sometimes be hostile, which makes us be more on guard. Over time, this armor can become so thick that we forget the people inside the bodies we’re treating are real, complex individuals with histories, traumas, and needs that extend far beyond their medical diagnosis.
But that’s not an excuse. It’s an explanation that demands action.
Remember: Every Patient Has a Story
The child in this story wasn’t just a case of “difficult behavior during a routine procedure.” They were a human being with a neurological condition that made them experience pain differently, with previous medical trauma that made them fear injections, with a developmental stage that made them incapable of understanding what was happening to them.
Every patient who enters our care brings a history we can’t see on their chart. The elderly man who fights during blood draws might have PTSD from military service. The woman who cries during pelvic exams might be a sexual assault survivor. The teenager who seems “dramatic” about minor procedures might have medical trauma from childhood.
We don’t need to know everyone’s full history, but we do need to approach every patient with the assumption that their responses make sense within the context of their lived experience, even when we can’t see that context.
Informed Consent Is Not Optional—Even for Children
One of the most disturbing aspects of this story is how completely this child was denied any information about what would happen to them. They expected one type of anesthesia and received another. They were drugged without their knowledge. They were restrained without explanation.
This isn’t informed consent—it’s medical paternalism at its worst.
Children deserve age-appropriate explanations of medical procedures. They deserve to know what will happen to their bodies. They deserve to have their questions answered and their fears acknowledged. They deserve to maintain whatever control is possible over their medical experience.
Yes, it takes more time. Yes, it’s more complex than just “getting the job done.” But informed consent—even for children—is both an ethical imperative and a trauma prevention measure.
Physical Restraint Should Be the Last Resort, Not the First
This eight-year-old was restrained by two adult men not because they were violent or dangerous, but because they were afraid and in pain. Their natural response to terror was met with force rather than comfort.
Physical restraint should never be our first response to patient distress. Before we hold someone down, we should ask:
- Have we explained what’s happening?
- Have we addressed their pain concerns?
- Have we offered comfort measures?
- Have we involved their support person?
- Have we considered alternative approaches?
- Is this restraint truly necessary for safety, or just for convenience?
When restraint is absolutely necessary, it should be done with the least force possible, with constant explanation and reassurance, and with recognition that we are likely creating trauma even as we provide medical care.
Parents and Support People Are Partners, Not Obstacles
This child’s mother was “ushered out” when they became distressed, removing their primary source of comfort during their moment of greatest terror. This decision prioritized staff convenience over patient wellbeing.
Family members and support people aren’t obstacles to overcome—they’re partners in care. Yes, sometimes they’re anxious or upset. Yes, sometimes they make our jobs more complex. But for most patients, especially children, the presence of trusted people is crucial for psychological safety.
Unless there’s a genuine safety concern, support people should be allowed to stay. When they must leave temporarily, it should be explained to both the patient and the support person, and they should be reunited as quickly as possible.
Pain Is What the Patient Says It Is
This child was repeatedly told their pain wasn’t as severe as they experienced it to be. Their neurological reality was dismissed because it didn’t match typical responses. This gaslighting became part of their trauma.
Pain is subjective. Sensitivity varies. Neurological differences are real. When a patient tells us they’re in pain, our job isn’t to judge whether their pain is “reasonable”—it’s to address it.
This doesn’t mean we give everyone narcotics or avoid necessary procedures. It means we believe patients when they tell us about their experience, we take steps to minimize pain when possible, and we acknowledge when procedures will be uncomfortable or painful rather than pretending they won’t be.
We Must Do Our Own Work
Here’s the hardest truth for those of us in healthcare: we cannot give compassionate care if we don’t take care of our own psychological wellbeing. The emotional demands of healthcare work are enormous. Without proper support, we develop secondary trauma, compassion fatigue, and emotional numbing that makes us less effective caregivers.
Taking care of ourselves isn’t selfish—it’s essential for patient care. This means:
- Seeking therapy when we need it
- Processing difficult cases with colleagues or supervisors
- Recognizing when we’re too overwhelmed to provide optimal care
- Advocating for better working conditions that allow for compassionate care
- Building resilience practices that help us stay emotionally available to patients
We cannot pour from empty cups. We cannot provide healing if we’re wounded and unhealed ourselves.
The System Must Change
Individual awareness and behavior change are important, but they’re not sufficient. Healthcare systems must be restructured to prioritize patient-centered care:
- Scheduling that allows adequate time for patient interaction
- Staffing levels that don’t force workers to choose between efficiency and empathy
- Training programs that emphasize trauma-informed care
- Policies that protect patient dignity and autonomy
- Quality measures that include patient psychological wellbeing, not just medical outcomes
- Support systems for healthcare workers dealing with secondary trauma
We need healthcare leaders who understand that patient satisfaction scores aren’t just about customer service—they’re about fundamental human dignity in vulnerable moments.
The Ripple Effects of Medical Trauma
What this survivor’s story reveals is how medical trauma ripples far beyond the original incident. Ten years later, they still can’t approach medical care with basic trust. They avoid necessary treatments. They experience anticipatory anxiety that consumes their daily life.
Multiply this by the thousands of patients who experience medical trauma every year, and we begin to see the scope of the problem. We’re not just failing individual patients—we’re creating a population of people who avoid or delay medical care because of trauma inflicted by the very system meant to help them.
How many people die or suffer complications because medical trauma made them afraid to seek care? How many chronic conditions go untreated because patients can’t tolerate medical environments? How many preventive screenings are skipped because the thought of being vulnerable in a medical setting triggers PTSD?
Medical trauma doesn’t just hurt individuals—it undermines public health by creating barriers to care that persist for decades.
To the Survivor Who Shared This Story
Your story matters because it reveals truths that the healthcare system needs to hear, even when those truths are uncomfortable. You were eight years old and deserved gentle, informed, respectful care. You deserved to have your pain acknowledged and minimized. You deserved to understand what was happening to your body. You deserved to have your mother stay with you for comfort. You deserved to be treated as a whole human being rather than just a mouth that needed dental work.
None of what happened to you was acceptable. Your fears aren’t irrational—they’re the logical result of having your trust betrayed by people in positions of power. Your ongoing struggles with medical care aren’t a sign of weakness—they’re evidence of trauma that should never have occurred.
I hope that sharing your story helps you process some of that trauma. I hope that reading this response helps you feel heard and validated. And I hope that someday soon, you’ll find healthcare providers who understand that your history matters, who earn your trust rather than demanding it, and who treat you with the dignity and respect you should have received all along.
You are not difficult. You are not dramatic. You are not unreasonable. You are a trauma survivor whose responses make perfect sense given what you’ve experienced.
When you’re ready to seek the dental care you need, look for trauma-informed providers. They exist, and they understand that healing sometimes has to happen before physical treatment can be successful. You deserve care from people who will work with your trauma rather than against it.
Your voice matters. Your experience matters. And your trust, when you’re ready to extend it again, should be earned by providers who understand the sacred responsibility of caring for someone who has been harmed by healthcare before.
Thank you for trusting me with something so profound and painful. Your story will help other trauma survivors feel less alone, and it will hopefully help healthcare providers recognize their power to heal or to harm.
To Healthcare Workers Reading This
If this story made you uncomfortable, good. Discomfort means your conscience is still intact. It means you still have the capacity to recognize harm and want to prevent it.
Some of you might be thinking, “But we can’t coddle every patient” or “Sometimes restraint is necessary” or “We don’t have time for all this emotional support.” And you’re not entirely wrong—healthcare involves difficult decisions, time pressures, and sometimes less-than-ideal circumstances.
But this story isn’t about coddling. It’s about basic human dignity. It’s about informed consent. It’s about recognizing that our patients are people, not problems to solve.
Every time we dismiss a patient’s pain, ignore their fears, or prioritize our convenience over their comfort, we risk creating medical trauma. Every time we forget that the body on the table contains a whole human being with feelings, memories, and the right to be treated with respect, we become part of the problem rather than the solution.
We went into healthcare to help people. But help without compassion, treatment without dignity, healing without humanity—these aren’t help at all. They’re just technical interventions that may fix the medical problem while creating psychological ones.
We can do better. We must do better. And it starts with remembering that every patient—even the “difficult” ones, even the scared ones, even the ones who remind us of our own limitations—deserves to be treated as we would want our own children, parents, or loved ones to be treated.
Their pain is real. Their fear is valid. Their trust is precious. And our responsibility to do no harm extends beyond their physical bodies to their psychological wellbeing.
We have the power to heal or to wound, to create trust or destroy it, to be remembered as sources of comfort or sources of trauma. That power comes with the responsibility to choose healing, always.
The eighteen-year-old who shared this story is still out there, still carrying the wounds we created a decade ago. But there are other eight-year-olds in dental chairs today, other frightened patients in our care right now. We have the opportunity—and the obligation—to ensure their stories have different endings.
Let’s make sure the next generation of patients remembers us as healers, not as another source of trauma to overcome.