My aunt Francine died four months from the day she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She was a very smart, determined, progressive woman who was involved in politics. Her husband had passed away a few years prior, and she had no children. We were close growing up, and during her illness, my husband and I helped her with whatever she needed.

One day, shortly after her devastating diagnosis, she turned to me and said, “Here are the arrangements from the chapel. After I die, just call them and have them pick me up. The rest is taken care of.”

This really threw me for a loop. I had never even heard of Jews cremating before. I was very uncomfortable with it, but the plans had been made, and when Francine passed away shortly after, I felt like I had to do what she wanted.

So her body was cremated just as she had planned. I had her ashes in my house for a year while my husband and I tried to figure out what to do with them. Eventually, we made a small ceremony and scattered them in Central Park West. And that was it.

But I wish we would’ve spoken about it prior. It bothers me that there’s no real place where Francine is. I would have liked a concrete place to connect with her. My parents were buried and I can visit them anytime. But Francine doesn’t exist anymore.

An organization like Last Kindness may have been able to prevent Francine’s cremation by giving me the information I needed to open a conversation and help her explore her options and address any hesitations she had.