You know what I love about this country? It’s that no matter how carefree you think you are, at any given moment you must forego huge chunks of your time and sanity dialing up vast, faceless entities such as your HMO where you find yourself on hold listening to delightfully memorable elevator music.
This all started because I summoned up the nerve to get a mammogram a few months ago. And don’t get me going on that subject because, let’s just be frank here, girls; we all secretly worry that once we’ve layed it all on the line (so to speak) and those big, cold pieces of glass separate at last, certain, um, body parts are going to be frozen forever in that flat-as-a-flounder squishy contour, forcing us to discard our cute Victoria’s Secret “push-up” bras and replace them with tube socks. I mean, it’s just a matter of time. Whenever I head for one of those sessions, I stop and think to myself, “Hmmmmm … maybe I should bring along the tire pump.” You know, just in case.
So although I nobly (and, OK, for my own good) subjected myself to this 21st century torture machine, my insurance company decided it’d be a real hoot to reject this procedure as an allowable expense. Silly goose that I am, I hoped I could resolve this glitch without contacting my insurance company, a huge corporation uninhabited by actual people and run, instead, by powerful computers possibly named “Hal.” So I dialed up the medical billing office instead, negotiated the computerized telephone system, and way before the “I’m ripping this $$*#@ phone out of the wall” stage, I was talking to an actual live person. My joy was short-lived, though, because the billing lady needed to place me on hold so she could search for my information. Not sure what I was signing up for, I agreed to hold.
After some really catchy Elton John tunes compellingly played on a kazoo, the billing lady was back. “The EOB we received from your insurance company said that you termed,” she began, speaking in medical billing code language understood only by brilliant brain surgeons and a few Labrador retrievers. Huh?? I don’t know about you, but I didn’t much like the sound of that word, “termed.”
“So what is that supposed to mean exactly?” I asked. “Is that ‘termed’ as in, um, ‘dead?’ Because let me say right here I’m pretty sure that I’m not dead.”
“Well, not ‘dead,’ technically,” she replied. “Possibly your claim was rejected because you’re no longer covered.”
That didn’t sound much better than finding out I had, unbeknownst to me, expired – especially since the insurance company had no noticeable problem cashing my big fat premium checks each month. There was nothing to do but find my insurance card and dial their toll-free number.
Trust me when I say that I have this automated telephone routing system all figured out. First they soften you up to throw you off guard. The warm voice answering your call assures you that your call is very important to them. Then they let loose with a rapid-fire barrage of questions in a telephone SAT exam to see if you qualify to be served. You listen politely to all of the options, never dreaming of interrupting the litany of choices by rudely pressing 6, for example, when we hadn’t even ventured into options 7, 8 and 9 yet, and let me just say if they ever figure out a way to offer us 67 choices per question, by gosh they’ll do it. And heaven help you if push the wrong number. “No, no, no!” you scream to the bodiless voice that is by now sounding like a person in need of a good exorcism. “I didn’t mean it! Take me back to my last choice – Oh, pleeeeeeze!!”
Eventually I passed the telephone entrance exam. Now it seems they want me to speak my 14 zillion-digit ID code into the phone with the tantalizing promise that someone will be right with me. Just as soon as they are finished “serving other customers,” that is. And just who are these phantom “other customers?” How many died of natural causes as they waited for “service?” Do these “other customers” in fact exist or are they fictitious entities fabricated to hide the fact that the entire customer-service department consists of a goat herder named “Gak” encamped in a small hut in New Zealand?
Personally, I believe insurance companies are actually Donald Trump. Oh, I realize that sounds radical, but bear with me. Who else do you know that is filthy rich, yet obnoxious and miserly enough to defy paying an insurance claim? Yep – The Donald. And in television’s off season, when he’s not snarling, “You’re fired!” – he’s in his big fat Corinthian leather chair sneering, “You’re rejected!”
OK, I haven’t figured out the part about how he changes his voice each time you call, going from a friendly, grandmotherly voice one time to an African-American male voice the next and then to a young British woman with an attitude. Probably some voice-synthesizer kind of thing. But be assured calls to your insurance company funnel directly into Trump’s office where you wait on hold until The Donald eventually picks up your call, his New York accent cleverly disguised by a Valley Girl voice so he can savor the supremely fun pursuit of saying, “You’re, like, totally rejected!”
So that’s not how it actually happened to me. After navigating the automated call-routing system with the grace of physically-impaired livestock, I actually reached a real live person who discovered I had fallen out of the system whereupon she competently fixed the problem. She asked if she could be of any additional assistance, said her name was Julie and if I had more questions to call back anytime. Oh, and to have a nice day. I suspect “Julie” may have been The Donald devilishly throwing me off track. I just can’t be sure.Â
Gale Hammond is a writer and freelance photographer who has lived in Morgan Hill
24 years. Reach her at Ga*********@*ol.com.
