If you’ve ever received medical care in the US and are fortunate enough to have health insurance, you’re probably aware of the voluminous mailings sent by the insurance company, outlining various costs of what is covered and what isn’t. She died in May, but I’m still receiving these mailings. Whenever they come, I open them. Each mailing is a separate snapshot into A.’s final trip through the healthcare system. Numerous mailings for her chemo and radiation. Another for the CT scan that revealed the lung metastasis that ultimately led her to hospice care. The one I received today covered a telehealth visit. It was the final visit with her oncologist. I remember that day. We saw him on the MacBook screen, both of us sitting there, waiting for him to enter the virtual doctor’s office. I don’t remember everything that was said, but I remember Dr. Venur being a compassionate listener; he was the epitome of respect and kindness. Regardless of the capacity, be it in the medical arena or a personal relationship, what do you say to someone knowing this will be the final time you see their face and hear their words? This person who will soon make the final, inescapable voyage into the beyond? The date of the telehealth visit was May 18. A. died just seven days later.