I have a medical aid. Which is a monthly payment to ensure that my family and I can go to the doctor when we have the flu and receive a prescription for antibiotics. God forbid something serious would happen like having to need a face transplant or wanting an enlargement or two. In such cases having a medical aid is like having a sexy sibling. It’s not worth anything, except for a photo opportunity. Not to mention those times when you might require a simple oral procedure.
(And that is not a sexual reference or something you should consider engaging with a sexy sibling, it’s a medical procedure.)
Something Dude required three months ago. It’s part of his ongoing treatment to rectify the bad gene he got from me resulting in less than perfect teeth. I thought he was looking pretty good by now, so I was a bit hesitant to fork out another small fortune for a dental operation as well. Wife says we have to because we love him. I say we don’t because only then will he know if a girl likes him for his looks or for his brain. Guess who won?
The practitioner who was responsible for the operation obviously have some experience in dealing with medical schemes, which is why he required payment in advance from yours truly. He did supply a very large invoice that we could use to claim our expenses back from the medical aid. We all know it’s probably easier to mate with a unicorn.
I had no choice. It was a lot of money. I was going to have to hunt and catch that frigging unicorn and make it my bitch.
Every time you have a query with my medical aid, I have to use a call-center. No direct line available. It simplifies things, they say. It centralizes things, they say. It allows an opportunity for inquiries after hours, they say. Well I say ‘they’ can go fuck themselves. Because after every journey through a thousand options, you end up with the same generic fake-friendly, trained voice who steals a little piece of your faith in humanity. And we all know how well I do with bureaucracy.
I can tell you how many hours I’ve spend listening to hold-music but you won’t believe me. I can list the call-center-operators I spoke to, in order to facilitate some kind of progress but you’ll think I’m making it up. I can try and elaborate on the amount of times I had to retell my version of events as to why the medical scheme owed me money, but you will stop reading this post and shoot the first person you see, purely as a result of my frustration. I don’t need that type of guilt.
What I can tell you is that I reached my breaking point yesterday. One phone call. Yes, ladies and gentleman, this Dad whom considers himself someone who always sees the bright side of life and laughs at most situations life throws at him, completely and utterly lost his shit yesterday. It was all over the place. Not only did my blood pressure peaked at a record level, I was shouting like an apocalypse gypsy on a street corner, trying to control my newly found levitation power. The worst part of that final call-center episode was the fact that I really, really wanted to kill someone.
Don’t you judge me!
If one considers that the call center from hell, hijacks small parts of your sanity with every call, then I was just an empty shell, a raving, murderous, highly agitated lunatic who exploded when the poor, innocent man on the other side asked me: “Please sir, just let me understand your query, tell me one more time…”
I refused to tell him but it didn’t end there…
After every phone call with the call center, the operator is obliged to ask you, without resolving the current issue, whether there was anything else they can assist with. I reckon it’s just an inside joke the sadists developed. So when the sod had the audacity to start rambling that atrocious sentence, I interrupted him and said: “So help me god, if you’re going to ask me whether there is anything else you can do to assist me, I’m gonna have an aneurysm.” I wanted to add “And before I die, I’m going to drive over there and use a keyboard to hit you over the head until I expose your brain matter, which I will then eat with your fucking mouth piece.” But I didn’t.
They also have the habit of sending a very condescending text message after the call, where they invite you to type a ‘1’ if the service was satisfactory and a ‘2’ if it was not. Just to make sure he understood my level of frustration and annoyance, I also asked him to refrain from sending me any kind of text message, purely because they never include “useless” as an option.
Then I hung up. Shaken, not stirred.
And today the money was paid into my account.