5 stages of grief, 9 circles of tech hell

IT CAME ON like Ebola. Things were fine on Saturday, but by Sunday, it had crashed. That’s a medical term, and a computer one. My Earthlink DSL died before my eyes.

For three weeks thereafter, my defunct computer and I went through Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’ five stages of dealing with death: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.

I came to learn many things: That Earthlink’s techs in India have a liking for Old Testament pseudonyms; I dealt with at least two Solomons and one Adam. That, according to Earthlink, my problem was that my house was 19,000 feet -- too far -- from the phone company. That Earthlink can alter time and space, turning a promised wait time of two minutes into 20, and 20 minutes into ... never. And most alarmingly for the tech world, I learned that I could do without a computer.

First stage, denial. My computer setup had worked fine for years. I gave it its very own DSL phone line and paid $50-plus a month to Earthlink for DSL service. Surely this was nothing serious, just a fleeting glitch, fixable with a quick phone call to Mumbai.

Then our frequent chats began. In the first several days, I spent hours in front of my offline computer following “now try this” directions. Sometimes I called, and a recording told me they were very, very busy, try later. I set my alarm for odd hours of the night, hoping to avoid computer-tech rush hour.

At last, the mutual realization: It wasn’t something that could be fixed over the phone. I needed a new DSL box. I ordered one, for about $70, and paid $30 extra for quick shipping. It didn’t arrive. I called. There was no record of my order. I placed another order, equally urgent. Again, no DSL box. But at least they found a record that I had called. In my DSL-less world, that was progress. I ordered a third box. It showed up -- and made not a whit of difference.

The anger stage: I became one of those people, writing outraged communiques with lots of capital letters and exclamation marks. Craftily, I double-dipped: I plugged my office laptop into my phone line and used dialup -- so slow I could scramble eggs in the time it took an e-mail to open. I called Earthlink on my cellphone, listening on speaker, and at the same time engaged in what Earthlink cozily calls “live chat” on the computer. I also hit my stopwatch. Over three weeks, I concluded that 45 minutes is the maximum time Earthlink spends on any one help call before the line goes dead. Even if you’re on hold for 44 of the 45 minutes.

After about 10 days of this, I was good and mad. I yelled. I swore. All it generated was several “trouble ticket numbers” and apologies. I was apologized to so often in the accents of the subcontinent that I felt like an English memsahib in a Merchant Ivory film.

One tech swore on his mother’s life that someone would call me between 11 p.m. and midnight. The next morning, I demanded to know why it hadn’t happened -- and whether the tech’s mother had been killed by the lie.

Checking e-mail by dialup, I’d find that Earthlink said they’d tried to contact me but could not. Couldn’t contact me? Earthlink had every phone number I have, even one my mother doesn’t know.

Next came the bargaining stage: I began every phone call with “I’d like a supervisor.” The supervisor would read my sad history while I sat on hold. Once, I was at my desk at The Times as the supervisor read, and I went online to look up home addresses for Earthlink’s founder and former boss, Sky Dayton, and its board of directors. Oh look, I said aloud to myself -- and to the listening supervisor -- here’s where Sky Dayton lives. Here’s where Robert Kavner lives.

I believe this got my grievance “escalated” (Earthlink’s word) to TRON, which they never translated but must mean “ICU for computers.”

I remembered that Earthlink had an office in Pasadena and decided to plead in person. When Times librarian John Jackson found the address for me through Earthlink’s Atlanta HQ, the PR person said darkly, “You don’t handle it that way.” I should call him to get my problem fixed. Tempting, but no way was I going to jump the queue ahead of my fellow sufferers.

The Pasadena office has no name over its door, behind which sits a polite security guard who helpfully gave me a list of telephone numbers to call. I copied them, even though I’d dialed them so often I had them committed to memory.

The TRON tech told me someone had to check my phone line, in person. We made an appointment -- Earthlink would send an AT&T; tech in a week’s time, when I was back from out of town. That morning felt like prom night. I ran to the window at the sound of every passing car. The hours ticked down to minutes, to seconds. No tech. I called -- why, why? While l was away, Earthlink had canceled my appointment.

Now depression set in, just as Kubler-Ross predicted. I didn’t care -- my computer could rot. The only thing running on it was the meter; I was still paying $50 a month for ... nada.

I slipped into acceptance. I had pens, paper, stamps. I had a telephone. Who needed a computer? Perversely, I began enjoying the battle. Merrily, I made another date with Earthlink for someone to come out and check my phone line.

“Absolutely,” the tech guy told me, someone will be there between noon and 2 on the appointed day. “Definitely.”

I waited, again. It was getting late, and dark, when someone appeared out of the mist. It was the AT&T; man -- the one I had called myself as backup.

He meticulously checked my phone line from the street to the house to the computer. He worked his magic and his magic worked. So, in short order, did my computer. And he told me about one toll-free service call he’d made to India. “Tom” had answered. “Tom who?” he asked. “Tom Cruise,” said the tech guy.

I got it: Mission impossible, 45 minutes and counting.