I Am Patient. Sort Of.

I consider myself a patient person. And I am really patient. Unless I’m provoked. Then, not so much. Of course, the definition of patience probably includes “even when provoked.” I like to forget about that part.

As a writer, I’m even more convinced that I’m a patient person—after all, writers can submit something and wait six months or more for a response. You see, I am patient.

But then the provocations happened. My computer is dying, so last week I ordered a new one (Costco had an amazing sale). And I didn’t find out until after I ordered it that it would take 10 to 15 days until arrival. But since my old computer is still working, most of the time, I tried to be grateful and tracked my computer via FedEx across China. (Which means, it was probably made by oppressed people in unsafe working conditions. Gulp.) Yesterday my computer made it to Alaska—now it’s on the same continent as I am!

So I felt like I was doing pretty well in the patience department. Until yesterday evening.

Multiple times before and right after my surgery, my doctor told me that I’d have all the biopsy reports on Tuesday. Great. I marveled at how quick it would be—surgery late Friday afternoon, results on Tuesday. I even Googled response times for this type of biopsy and discovered that a week was quick. I wasn’t going to have to wait a week. Yay! I could handle a couple of days. So I didn’t worry. I waited. And if I’m honest, I spent most of the time asleep. Who knew you could sleep 12.5 hours out of 16 without the help of medicine?

So Tuesday came. I made sure my cell phone was fully charged and the volume was turned up. I ordered the minions to pick up the home phone if it rang—they like to ignore the phone. (What is it with young people these days—they don’t like to talk on the phone? They only communicate through emails and texting.)  Fully armed with all possible communication devices, I waited. All day. At four o’clock, I called the office. I got the answering machine. Apparently, they don’t answer the phone after 4pm. And the recording announced that any messages will wait to the next business day. Oh, and by the way, they don’t work on Wednesdays. You know how they say when someone’s angry they see red? I think I saw pink.

In case, the doctor is confused, here’s some advice. You don’t say, “I’ll get the results to you on Tuesday” and then not call. Especially when post-surgery, the doctor discusses your problem and says to you, the patient, “Wow, I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

You don’t say, “I’ll have someone from the office call and schedule your post-op visit for next week so you can be cleared for regular activities,” and then not have anyone call.

In all fairness, they probably didn’t call because the results weren’t back. I know when I worked as a cytogenetic tech while I was in college, anything that came in Friday afternoon waited until Monday. Not necessarily because we were lazy or were eating cake (though someone always brought cake, cookies, etc., on Fridays), but mostly because we were trying to get all the stuff that was already late finished before the weekend.

So I’m waiting. I no longer see pink. I’m having fun watching my computer travel from Anchorage to Memphis. And I’ve got my doctor’s office phone number ready and waiting. Because Thursday at 9:00am when the office is opened, I’m going to be their first phone call.  

Tech Support Sans Swearing

A few weeks ago the kids read a magazine article about how to get good service on tech repair calls. They’d been eagerly waiting for me to have to call tech support. But like the watched pot that never boils, our tech stuff was working perfectly.

Until yesterday. A line of thunderstorms swept through Chattanooga. And our phones stopped working. I assumed that the lines were out because of the storm. Though it did seem a bit odd that we still had internet service after I rebooted the wireless router. But who am I to argue with electronic technology. I’ll take what I can get—if the internet works, it’s one less thing I have to deal with.

However, after a few hours, the phone didn’t start working. I had to call “repairs.” The problem is that Cal and I have a distinct division of labors based on ability to do the job or the inability to tolerate the way the other person does the job. For example, I do laundry because I’m fastidious about colors and whites, stain-treatment, zipping up brass zippers so they don’t nick knits, and making sure bras don’t go through the dryer—cuts the life of the elastic. On the other hand, Cal does bills because, well, I reverse numbers—this is not acceptable to someone who insists on balancing to the penny. You get the idea.

The problem is that I have no idea how his filing system works—and I have to find a bill to find the repair number. Thankfully, Cal is meticulous in six drawers of files, which contain everything from sermons to bills to warranties to the dog’s AKC papers.

Using the cellphone, I dialed “Repairs.” And I got the menu. After an overly perky “Welcome to AT&T,” the computer asked me if I “habla Espanol.” The kids, who were eagerly sitting around me in order to make use of their new “tech menu skills” yelled, “Push two, push two!” I don’t speak a single word of Spanish besides “taco, burrito, fajita, enchilada, and mole sausa”—which probably isn’t even correct. But the kids read that the wait time for a bilingual operator is much shorter than a plain-old English speaker. And since the person is bilingual, they can speak English. This seemed like cheating to me so I turned my back on the instigators of wickedness.

Some time passed, I’ve typed in my phone number and tons of other assorted information, and the computer asked for a number where I can be reached. (This struck me as pathetic—obviously it can’t be my stupid land line, which doesn’t work.) So, I began to type in my cell number. After the first two numbers the computer said in a uber-cheery voice, “So you want to restart this phone call?”

“No!” I shouted. Luke said, “Tell the computer you’re going to cancel their service and go with a competitor”—more advice from the magazine article. “Swear at the computer” said little voices who shall not be named because of the naughtiness of what they suggest. (Note to self: censor their magazine reading. No more tech services articles.)

I scowled at the kids. They laughed. More button pushing ensued. Finally, the computer declared, “I’m sorry, we don’t understand. Please stay on the line.” More gnashing of teeth and button pushing followed.

Finally, an uber-jolly man said, “Thank you for calling ATT, we’re sorry you have a problem. How may we assist you?” I considered telling him to stop being so giddy. .I considered telling him that I hate his company. I considered telling him that phone menus are a work of the Evil One. Instead, I whined, “My phone doesn’t work.”

More joviality ensued during which he told me to take a corded phone and test all the phone jacks in the house. I said, “I don’t have a corded phone.” He responded, “Why does everyone tell me that?”

At this point, I had two choices. One, explain that this is no longer the 1960s and I wouldn’t even know where to buy a corded phone. Two, assume the question is rhetorical and wait, patiently. I choose the latter. (At this point, the kids are talking about making popcorn, wondering how my face will next contort, and reminding me that I should have taken the Spanish option. And, of course, there’s one who still wants to hear me swear.)

In the end, the phone dude, who’s clearly been sharing Vicodin with Luke, told me there was nothing wrong with my phone line. Politely, I reminded him that I didn’t have phone service. He explained that I probably had had a microsurge within the phone lines during the thunderstorm. He told me to unplug everything for at least five minutes and the “charge” would dissipate and everything should work. If not, I could call him back. Yeah, right. Guess what? It worked. And I didn’t have to lie about speaking Spanish, swear at the computer, or threaten to move to a competitor. WooHoo!

The Plague Redux

Since early May there has been at least one sick person in our family. And just when I thought we were finally getting healthy, Matthew came down with the scourge. He’s coughing and stewing an aggressive fever. His cough is slightly different though. Instead of the wet cough that sounds like a backfiring tuba, Matt has a croupy cough that sounds like a seal on steroids.

What is prolonging this plague? Why couldn’t everyone get super sick at once and then we could be done with it? I’m sure there must be some heavy-duty sanctification behind it, but if I knew what exactly I was supposed to learn I’m sure I could do it much faster.

I’m probably supposed to be more patient, which means I shouldn’t have said, “Jacob, we’re getting really tired of listening to your cough.” Yeah, that was the epitome of tact and motherly compassion. Or, “Matt, you don’t need to announce your fever every five minutes.” After all, he doesn’t have anything more exciting to do. (Though I will state for the record that digital thermometers that measure to the tenth of a degree were created by engineers who had never taken care of a sick, bored pre-teen.) Or, my favorite, “If you don’t cover you mouth when you hack, I will duct-tape your mouth shut.” Okay, I didn’t really say that—I only thought it. Hmm…I see a pattern here. Patience. I need to hurry up and get some.