How did this happen? Who started the trend of office assistants being surly, nurses seeming matter-of-fact, and doctors acting omniscient? And why do so many imitate these less than ideal models? Don’t they know we aren’t feeling well already? That we need—and are paying a lot of money for—personal attention and care?

Well, that’s probably where the problem starts, because they know we’re not paying for it; that the insurance companies are. Apparently, that’s who they think their real customers are. We are just patients.

The Usual Story

Oh, happy day

Typically, you show up, the noisy glass window slides open, and the first —usually curt—thing you here is, “Insurance card and photo ID.” No “Good morning, how are you feeling today?” or anything at all cordial with a warm, healing tone. Am I the only one who thinks medical office staffers need a graduate program of their own? Because they apparently have to be taught that that first interaction a patient has during the office-visit is crucial. Right away you feel better or worse. Which means that almost everyone feels worse.

But there’s more than that gauntlet to run. You then have to sit in a barren, windowless waiting room with dog-eared, six-month old magazines and TV monitors that are showing only medical marketing programs. (I do wonder if medical offices get paid to have those depressing things in there.) Meanwhile you have to fill out the same information on three or four photo-copied forms.

Into the cave

And it’s often a long wait. Your 10 o’clock appointment really means a call from the nurse about 30 minutes later, followed by a lonely wait in another—this time much smaller but equally windowless and depressing—room where they close the door (why is that?) and leave you to contemplate the walls full of medical charts, cancer-warning posters, and such. Next to you is the ever-inviting exam table, a glove dispenser, and the blood-pressure gauge. Just the thing to get you in the mood. Depending, of course, whether you have to wait another 10 or 60 minutes.

What might be wrong with me?

When the doctor does finally appear, it’s right to business. Not the business of attending to you, but of assessing the medical facts, because—that’s right—lots of ailing monks are waiting in the other little cells down the hall (typically 6 or 8 are scheduled per hour to meet the requirements of their employers, the local hospitals) so they gotta keep the shuffle going. Get ’em in, check their vitals, poke ’em a little, slap a prescription in their hand, and head out—leaving them alone again to ponder their medical fate and collect themselves before making that final walk down the corridor to the friendly “check out” window.

But What If?

Just imagine this scene. You arrive at your doctor’s office where you are welcomed warmly (genuinely) and offered a fresh, first-grade cup of coffee, tea, or juice? Not from a plastic dispenser in a paper cup in the corner of the room, but in a nice cup by a hostess who, after she’s settled you in, quietly takes your insurance card and ID, goes to the administrative area, and checks you in. On the tables are quality up-to-date periodicals, newspapers, and books—something to enrich the brain rather than distract it. The TV screen offers selections of worthwhile documentaries, biographies, and educational programming. You are surrounded by enticing art that does more than fill wall space—it calls for you to look at it with interest and appreciation.

How about a waiting room like this…

The atmosphere conveys no hint of “medical” or “hospital” or “sick.” For all you know you are in the first-class waiting lounge of a private air carrier. And when they say you have a 10:15 appointment, it means that you are up and moving at 10:15. But instead of being called into the public stall to be weighed, measured, and gauged, you are escorted to an exam room by an amicable nurse who does all those things there, privately, comfortably, assuredly.

And—you guessed it—the exam room is actually pleasant to be in. Nice decor. Comfortable arm chairs. No medical charts or pharmaceutical ads. The medical “equipment” is inconspicuous. You can choose from a variety of musical selections on the audio panel, pick up another something worthwhile to read, or browse the internet on your phone or laptop via the office’s free Wi-Fi network.

and an exam room like this?

A few minutes later the doctor comes in. Or, if he’s going to be late, the hostess or nurse returns as often as need be to say so, to apologize for the wait, and to ask if there’s anything else she can get you in the meanwhile. When the doctor does arrive, he actually interacts with you, talks with you, and gets an intuitive feel for your well being without having to ask directly about your symptoms. Meanwhile he’s intent on two main things: reassuring you and showing no indication of needing to just deal with you and get going. He is there for you in every sense, it shows, and you already feel better simply because of that. When he’s done, he rings a quiet buzzer to let the hostess know it’s time to come and escort you out. A pleasant face enters the room and offers to walk you down the hall to another private check-out lounge where you sit while she brings you necessary forms to sign—all of which she goes over with you in plain English.

Scheduling your next visit

If you need to write a check or process a credit card, you do it from the comfort of a chair or desk, not standing at another window looking down at a busy administrative assistant. Same thing for your next appointment: the hostess sits with you and schedules it. And, yes, she’ll be the one that calls you—personally—the day before your next appointment to say how much she’s looking forward to seeing you. (She’s also the one who called you before your first appointment to ask if you would like original, not photo-copied, medical forms (on which you never have to enter anything more than once) mailed to you so you can fill them out before you arrive.) Oh, and if you did have to wait an inordinate amount of time before the doctor saw you, she automatically gives you a legitimate discount proportionate to the time waited. No questions asked.

I don’t know about you, but I think all this is not too much to ask for—we should not even have to ask for it—when each visits costs anywhere from $80 to $300. Yes, I know that the nasty, lurking issue is the insurance companies, but this would still be a heck of a way to improve what we’ve got. And I guarantee you—those hostesses would make the reputation of many a physician’s office. •

(And here’s a telling article quoted from the NY Times.)

What I’m thinking now is that we customers ought to start a Rebate Revolution that goes something like this. Whenever we shop somewhere, we require from the vendor an advance cash payment equal to 15 percent of the value of whatever we are buying. The terms will be that within 60 days—if the vendor submits proper paperwork in the proper format to the proper place at the proper time, all of which we will stipulate—then we will send the vendor a promise to return to that store within another 60 days and purchase an item equal in value to the 15 percent they paid us.

This thing about them issuing us conditional terms—that’s done. That’s behind us, baby. It’s time to debate the rebate and right the consumer rights ship!

Except there’s this one bump, particularly in the left lane, about a quarter mile after you turn onto Lockwood coming from the Ashley River Bridge, right before the overpass.

That thing is like one of those equestrian jumps (what kind of word is ‘equestrian’ anyway?) where the horse, instead of going as fast as possible to get over it, has to stop right in front so as to get sufficiently up and then over. You know, the ones where the horse usually knocks all the poles onto the ground. Which is exactly how it feels in my car—like I’m crashing into something.

And it’s not just my ‘89 Volvo sedan I’m talking about here. That bump should have been fixed long ago, before the road started to feel like an icy bobsled course.

right before the equestrian jump on Lockwood

Don’t any city employees drive that way? A serious hazard, that’s what that thing is.

And yes, there are others. Like the one coming off the connector ramp, just before you merge onto Lockwood. A little ski jump, this one. Followed by a series of challenging bumps that you have to dodge left, then right, then left again before swinging your jolly way into traffic (how come there’s no “speed humpS” sign here?).

And, of course, there’s the ‘big’ jump, where new-concrete-roadway transitions to paved-landfill. This one’s a challenge traveling both directions. Drivers typically either slow down out of fear or speed up to see just how far they can get off the ground. Whooha!

another good landing heading east

Hattie thinks the shock-absorber companies round town are in on all this. I’m not sure. But I stood there for a good 30 minutes and I definitely saw a WHOLE bunch of tax money falling into that big crack. •

She’s not a particularly good driver, and I smiled. But same thing the next day and the next, until I finally asked her, part jokingly: “Hey Hat, what’s with your car facing out? Worried you might not make it out of here on time?”

She turned with a frown and said, “You ninny. Ever since we got this stinkin computer you’ve been telling me, ‘Back up the drive, back up the drive.’ So I am.”

Poor thing. Now I don’t know what to tell her. Could be trouble.

First, acknowledge that there are two problems: service and customer service. The first problem is… well, have you ever met anyone who praises AT&T service? So you have to begin with the second problem, and here’s how:

Start by being nice. Customers will respond a lot better if you treat them like friends. Don’t be too formal. That’s an old form of customer service and people don’t like it. Try to apologize now and then for the terrible service, abysmal download speeds, frequent internet messages (“site not found, broadband error, please restart your browser”), modem mishaps, dropped calls, and pricing mistakes (or whatever they are). Let customers know—without being too nice about it—that the crew there is trying to right the ship.

“great” customer service rep

The initial conversation is crucial. Right now it goes something like this: “Thanks for choosing the new AT&T, my name is Raja, how can I provide the best customer service possible for you today?” followed by, “What’s your name, is this a good call back number, and just to be sure I got it, let me repeat back to you the number you just gave me.”

Wrong. We know who we just called, you can see our number (you’re the world’s largest telecommunications company), and the matter of great customer service should be a given. The best way to communicate it is to be it.

Here’s an option: “Hi, this is Raj, how can I help?” Then listen. Let customers talk about their problem right away. And whatever you do—whether you have to run some test or get more information—don’t ever put the customer on hold. And stop all that repeating back stuff (“Just to make sure I understand your problem, let me repeat back what you just told me”). Whose dumb business idea was that? That’s not how people talk to each other.

website madness

As for the number one big problem, it’s gonna be harder but it’s easy in the beginning. First, stop jerking customers around with the pricing. Be honest. And if the download speed is really going to be 200 mps, say so. Don’t charge us for 450 mps plus all the delays and interruptions. You see, we don’t mind paying for good stuff. It’s just gotta be good.

Next, keep things easy to understand on the web site and especially on the bills. Make these two things—your main means of reaching out to us—as intuitive and user friendly as possible. Make both a positive experience every time. Right now the web site is frustrating every time and opening your bill turns the stomach every time.

deciphering AT&T bill

The web site needs to be turned inside out so that it presents, not what you offer and want to sell us, but what we need and may want to buy. The bill is a maze, and we know that you know that, which is still a-mazing to us.

Here’s the killer though. Right now, we don’t have a choice. We have to use your services. When that changes, and it will, we’re gone unless you do something fantastic to convince us otherwise. But time’s running out. We’re not on hold. You are—for the time being.

But the silver lining in our angst is that we are so human that, if you can make things right, we’ll forgive you. Then we’ll stay or come running back for one simple reason: because we LOVE good service and good customer service. These days we can’t get enough of them. And it would be fantastic to see the giant change in these ways.

Yes, I’m an optimist. But somebody in this house has to be. •