Speak clearly into the receiver, "f-r-u-s-t-r-a-t-i-o-n."

It dawned on me the other day that it has been close to 5 years since I’ve been to the doctor. Seemingly healthy, I continue just to live out my daily life as be. While in college, I would visit the medical center from time to time to get an antibiotic when I felt a cold coming on, or to have my knee checked out that one time I thought I messed it up trying to cross the road (don’t judge me…I was trying not to get hit by a car and I planted wrong).

Being the forward-thinking individual I am, I decided to schedule an appointment here in town just to play it safe. I asked a few people whom I should call, and several people mentioned a general practice physician: Dr. Sita Devulapalli. Yes. Fifteen letters. (That’s the literary element known as foreshadowing there kiddos)

Not knowing, and never previously caring, I decided to call my insurance company to inquire if a visit to Dr. Devulapalli’s office would be covered in my plan. I finally locate the 1-800 number on my insurance card and dial away. I would still like to meet the person who thought using 6 point font on a wallet-sized card was a good idea. I’m not even old and it took me a few minutes to make out what the number was.

There’s a lot of debate right now about universal healthcare—some say everyone should have equal access while others disagree and think we should tweak the system in place…all I want is to never have to deal with a machine over the phone again.

The computer generated voice seemed friendly enough to begin with. “Hello,” it greeted me cheerfully. “Welcome to your insurance provider.” Smooth sailing, I thought. “Please listen to the following menu for your options.” Some of the things they included together as options still have me shaking my head in wonder. “If you have an inquiry about the coverage your company provides, or wish to add coverage for sexually transmitted diseases, press one.” Whoa. What if I press one, but the phone cuts out? Will this friendly voice on the other line forever think that I, Kyle, am somewhere out there on pins and needles wondering if my monthly Valtrex prescription will be covered? You may laugh, but you know they track your phone number.

After successfully maneuvering my way through several menus, still under the direction of the friendly voice, I hear the option I needed: “If you would like to search for a specific doctor in your area, press two.” It felt as if I began to round the corner of the track and sprint towards a victory…but then the computer opened its stupid mouth again.

“Do you know the name of the doctor you are looking for?” I was calmly asked. “Yes,” I said clearly into the phone. “Good, please spell the doctor’s last name, letter by letter.” I was scared, but gave it my best shot, “D-e-v-u-l-a-p-a-l-l-i.” The uncomfortable silence worried me. “I’m sorry,” my computer friend said as if I had failed it. “I didn’t get all that. Please spell the last name again, and more clearly.” The one time I call a customer service line and the person on the other end isn’t in India—I’m trying to spell an Indian name. How’s that for irony?

Unwilling to be deterred from my future health and well-being by a computer, I carefully spelled the name again, “D-e-v-u-l-a-p-a-l-l-i.” Surely this time it would understand. Surely, I was wrong. “OK,” the computer said in a flinching tone. “This time, say only the first three letters, and hit the pound key after each letter.” I felt like I had inappropriately been put into the slow class at school. Little did I know, the horror was far from over.

“D,” I forcibly yelled into the receiver as I hit the pound key thinking the cocky computer would feel it. “If you said B, as in boy, press one. If you said T, as in Tom, press two. If you said V, as in vase, press three. If you said E, as in Eagle, press four.” This seriously happened. Surely it was just be taunting me at this point. I mean, I was already over ten minutes into the phone call. I envisioned a man named Will crouched around the computer; he wore horn-rimmed glasses and called out to his buddy across the room, “Hey Carl! We have a yeller!”

The overwhelming urge to give up began to sweep over me, but then I remembered that I’m an American, and if I were to quit, it would mean the terrorists are winning. I used my middle finger to threateningly push the star key signaling that I obviously am not able to properly pronounce the fourth letter of the alphabet I memorized some 19 years ago. “D!” I was screaming at this point. The stupid voice finally recognized that I had said D as in dog. “E!” I screamed even louder. The computer had the nerve to ask me if I was finished saying the first three letters before I even had the chance to hit the pound key. Again, not a joke.

I appreciate technology as much as the next person, but when it begins to cop an attitude with me, I get pissed. For a split second, I actually wished I were talking to a Furby—it was that bad. The blood began to boil inside me. I could feel my heart rate start to increase. I wondered if the computer was trying to make me have an aneurysm and force me to pay the insurance company money.

I could see the computer’s face. Taunting me with its questions, “Please start over again and say the first three letters of the last name of the doctor you wish to search for.” I cannot remember the last time I was this frustrated. I again contemplated just giving up, but like I mentioned, I’m an American. Obviously my silence bothered the bastardly invention as it began to ask me again to say the three letters. “I’m here you idiot!” I nastily quipped. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that, please repeat the first three letters of the doctor’s…” I cut it off in mid sentence. “F!” the rage came out. “U!” my fist clenched around the phone as I continued to scream at it this time instead of into it. “C!” no machine would get the best of me. “There’s three letters, if you’re so smart, you figure the rest of it out!!” I slammed the phone down. I imagined Will and Carl taken aback by the anger. I wondered if they figured it out. I hoped the computer got a virus. My twenty-minute verbal fiasco was over, and I had failed to properly spell three letters for a computer.



I quickly became ashamed that a computer had frustrated me so much, and quietly began to watch TV again, glad that no one had been around to witness my meltdown. You see, I normally never react to anything like that. I contemplated calling the computer back to apologize; after all, it had been friendly in the beginning. Ultimately, I decided not to though, I shuddered at the thought of having to spell “I-M-S-O-R-R-Y.” How would it know where to put the apostrophe?

I still haven’t scheduled a doctor’s appointment.