01/29/2025
“Medic 5, respond to a 41-year-old female, groin injury with entrapment. Conscious, breathing, requesting transport.”
My partner and I exchanged looks. entrapment? Oh, this was going to be interesting.
When we arrived, we found our patient pacing in her bedroom, slightly bent forward, gripping her waistband like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart. Her face was beet red and tears down her cheeks, both from pain and the sheer embarrassment of the situation.
“Please, just get me to the hospital without making this worse,” she pleaded.
We did our best to keep straight faces.
“Alright, let’s take a look,” I said, keeping my voice professional.
She very carefully unbuttoned her jeans just enough for us to see the problem.
Sure enough, two of her lady lips had been violently consumed by the zipper. The skin was pinched so tight between the teeth that it looked like it had been welded in place. Blood was visible, but the real damage was emotional.
“How did this happen?” my partner asked, because of course he did.
She groaned. “I was running late, I yanked my jeans up, and BAM! It’s like my body decided to betray me.”
Now, we had two options:
1. Try to free it ourselves. High risk, high reward.
2. Get her to the hospital. More embarrassment, but safer.
Given how tightly she was locked in, we decided transport was the best bet.
Getting her onto the stretcher was an adventure in itself. She couldn’t sit normally, so we had to help her into a half-reclined, wide-kneed position that made her look like she was about to give birth to an invisible baby.
The second we rolled her out to the ambulance, her nosy neighbor peeked over the fence.
“Oh my goodness, Susan! Are you okay?”
Without missing a beat, my partner called out, “Just a little zipper trouble, nothing major!”
Susan glared at us like she wanted to unzip our faces.
Once inside the ambulance, she tried to distract herself with conversation.
“You guys must see some crazy stuff, huh?”
“Oh yeah,” I said, keeping it vague. “But this is definitely a first.”
Suddenly, she groaned and shifted uncomfortably. “Ugh. Every bump makes it worse!”
My partner, trying to lighten the mood, smirked. “Well, if you weren’t stuck before, you might be by the time we get there.”
She did not find that funny.
Halfway to the hospital, I looked back to check on her and found her Googling how to unzip a l***a from jeans.
“Don’t trust WebMD,” I warned. “It’s probably going to tell you that you have three days to live.”
She sighed. “Honestly? If this kills me, just put ‘Death by Levi’s’ on my tombstone.”
By the time we got to the ER, she had gone through all five stages of grief. As we wheeled her inside, she stopped us.
“One last favor?” she asked. “Please, for the love of God, don’t tell the nurses why I’m here out loud.”
Of course, the moment we entered, the triage nurse asked, “What’s the complaint?”
Before we could say anything, Susan blurted out, “I ZIPPERED MY VA**NA, OKAY?”
Everyone in the ER turned to look. Even a guy with a broken arm winced.
The nurse stifled a chuckle and waved us on. “Alright, honey, let’s get you unzipped.”
As we left, my partner whispered to me, “You know she’s never wearing jeans again.”