The price of dying in the Philippines

Somewhere inside a funeral home, a man is carefully preparing a body for its final viewing. He washes it, applies chemicals, makes the necessary preparations and ensures that the person will look presentable when the family comes to say goodbye.

He has done this thousands of times. For 38 years, he has made a living preparing the dead.

He sometimes talks to the bodies he handles, explaining what he is about to do as though the person could still hear him.

A few rooms away, coffins and flowers are being prepared. Families are making arrangements, choosing funeral packages and trying to figure out how much they can afford to spend.

At the cemetery, another man is digging. He is preparing a space for someone whose family will soon gather around a grave, watching as their loved one is lowered into the ground.

These are ordinary working days for people whose livelihoods revolve around death.

For the families they serve, however, nothing about death is ordinary.

It arrives with grief, uncertainty and, often, a financial burden that no one is prepared to carry. There are funeral expenses to settle, arrangements to make and burial spaces to secure. Even as families struggle to accept that someone they love is gone, they must find a way to pay for a final goodbye.

In the Philippines, death is inevitable. Giving someone a dignified burial, however, comes at a price.

For families living from one paycheck to another, that price can mean borrowing money, asking relatives for assistance or sacrificing expenses intended for everyday necessities.

But the cost of dying is not limited to what appears on a funeral bill.

It is also found in the people who prepare the bodies, the workers who witness families falling apart and the graves that eventually become quiet when those left behind stop coming.

In Laoag City, three people offer a glimpse into this often-overlooked world: Ruby Undang, a 56-year-old embalmer with 38 years of experience; a representative of Baquiran Funeral Homes; and Cesar Ibao, a 46-year-old gravekeeper who has spent a decade preparing burial spaces.

Their stories reveal that while death may be the end of one person's life, it can mark the beginning of another family's struggle.

THE LAST PERSON TO CARE FOR THE DEAD

For 38 years, Ruby Undang has made a living handling the dead.

At 56, he has become familiar with a profession that many people would find difficult to imagine themselves doing. His work involves washing and preparing bodies, administering chemicals and preserving them for the final viewing.

When he first entered the profession, the process was difficult. He was still learning how to properly preserve a body and understand the different procedures involved.

Nearly four decades later, the technical side of embalming has become familiar. He knows what to do, how to handle the bodies and how to carry out the process.

But familiarity has not completely taken away the fear.

Sometimes, he still feels frightened when touching a cold body.

There is something profoundly human about that admission. After 38 years of working with the dead, Undang remains aware that every body he handles once belonged to someone who lived an ordinary life, had people waiting at home and shared memories with a family.

Perhaps that is why he has developed a habit that might seem unusual to people unfamiliar with his profession.

He talks to the deceased.

Before beginning the embalming procedure, Undang speaks to the person as though he were still alive. He explains what he is about to do and asks the deceased not to make the process difficult.

He even prays before starting.

It is a quiet exchange in a room where the person being addressed can no longer answer.

For Undang, however, it is a way of showing respect.

His responsibility is not simply to preserve a body. He wants to make sure that when the family finally sees their loved one, the person will look presentable and peaceful.

He understands that the viewing may be the family's last opportunity to see the deceased before burial.

Not every body is easy to prepare.

Among the most difficult cases are victims of accidents, particularly those who suffer severe facial injuries. Restoring their appearance can be physically demanding, and sometimes the damage is too extensive.

There are families who eventually decide to have the coffin closed.

For an embalmer, these situations are particularly difficult because the work is no longer just about the technical process. There is also the family's expectation and the desire to see someone they love looking the way they remember them.

Undang said he feels pity for these cases. He knows that behind every body is a family hoping for one last glimpse of someone they love.

Then there are the children.

Undang explained that younger bodies, particularly infants, deteriorate faster and require different preservation procedures. Families are advised to limit the viewing period, usually to around three days, depending on the condition of the body.

It is one of the realities of his profession that remains difficult to separate from the emotions surrounding it.

After nearly four decades of preparing other people for burial, Undang has also considered what he wants when his own time comes.

His preference is cremation.

Having spent much of his life witnessing and performing the embalming process, he said he would rather not undergo the same procedure he performs on others.

It is an unexpected perspective from a man whose profession is centered on preparing people for death.

He knows the process better than most. He has seen what happens to bodies after life ends. And when asked about his own eventual passing, he has already made a personal choice.

Even those who work with death, it seems, have their own fears about it.

THE BUSINESS OF SAYING GOODBYE

The embalming process is only one part of the expenses a family must face.

Once the body is prepared, there is still a funeral to arrange. A coffin must be selected, flowers must be provided, burial clothes must be prepared and the family must decide how much it can afford to spend.

At Baquiran Funeral Homes in Laoag City, the cost of these arrangements depends largely on the family's financial capacity.

A representative explained that the funeral home caters to different economic groups, from families living below the poverty threshold to middle-class and affluent clients.

The basic packages start at P35,000, with other options reaching P50,000 and P70,000.

These packages include the coffin, embalming, burial clothes, flower arrangements and funeral services, including arrangements at the family's residence.

But one major expense remains outside the package: the cemetery lot.

For wealthier clients, the cost can be significantly higher. According to the representative, a single coffin can cost more than P500,000.

The difference between these amounts reflects how differently families experience death.

For some, a funeral is an occasion where they can afford elaborate arrangements and a beautiful final viewing. For others, the challenge is simply finding enough money to give their loved one a decent burial.

Even the starting price of P35,000 can already be overwhelming for an ordinary Filipino household.

When asked to consider the amount from the perspective of a family living paycheck to paycheck, the representative acknowledged that it was expensive.

The response was not a sales pitch or an attempt to justify the price. It was an admission shaped by years of seeing families struggle.

"Kung kaya ko nga lang ilibre, ililibre ko," the representative said.

If it were possible to provide the service for free, the representative would.

There are instances when the funeral home reduces its charges to help families, particularly those who have lost young children. The representative said the business tries to accommodate what families can afford instead of insisting that they purchase arrangements beyond their means.

But compassion exists alongside the realities of running a business.

Employees must be paid. Vehicles consume fuel. Embalming chemicals, flowers and other materials must be purchased. There are operating expenses that cannot simply disappear because a family is grieving.

Some clients take months or even years to settle their accounts.

The representative explained that the funeral home cannot simply force people to pay immediately after losing someone. There is an understanding that the family is already carrying an enormous burden.

It is a difficult position: the business must survive, but so must the families it serves.

The representative described the P35,000 package as an amount that can leave very little profit after expenses. The funeral home still has to recover its operating costs while trying to make its services accessible to people who need them.

But the financial burden is only one part of what makes the profession difficult.

The other is witnessing the people left behind.

The representative recalled seeing young children at wakes, some barely a year or two old, who had lost a parent.

There are spouses who suddenly have to raise their children alone. There are families who must figure out how to survive after losing the person who provided for them.

The questions become difficult to ignore.

How will these children grow up? Who will provide for them? How will the surviving parent manage? What happens to a family that was already struggling financially before the death?

These are expenses and consequences that no funeral package can account for.

Even someone who has spent years arranging funerals is not protected from the pain of losing a family member.

The representative recalled the death of a grandfather, explaining that the experience was entirely different from handling the death of other people.

Despite knowing the process, there was still shock and pain.

"You are no longer dealing with other people. You are dealing with yourself," the representative said.

It is one thing to arrange a funeral for a stranger. It is another to stand beside the coffin of someone whose life has been part of your own.

The knowledge of what happens after death cannot prepare anyone for that moment.

THE FORGOTTEN RESTING PLACES

When the funeral ends, the mourners eventually return home.

The flowers are left behind. The coffin is lowered into the ground. The grave is covered, and the family begins the difficult process of adjusting to an absence that will not simply disappear.

For Cesar Ibao, 46, the burial is another part of his working day.

He has spent 10 years as a gravekeeper, digging burial spaces and preparing the ground for people who will soon be laid to rest.

His work is physically demanding, particularly when cemetery spaces become limited.

Every grave he digs will eventually hold someone's remains. Every burial means another family will have to walk away from a place where someone they love has been laid to rest.

But after a decade in the cemetery, Ibao has also witnessed another side of death: the graves that families eventually stop visiting.

Some are left uncleaned. Others appear to have been forgotten.

He said he sometimes clears and maintains these spaces, hoping that the families might eventually return.

He does not immediately abandon them.

Perhaps someone will come back. Perhaps a child will visit a parent's grave. Perhaps relatives will remember the person buried there.

It is a small act of maintenance, but there is something quietly heartbreaking about it.

Not every grave receives flowers during Undas. Not every name is remembered. Not every person buried in a cemetery continues to have someone regularly visiting.

And for families who are already struggling financially, maintaining a burial space is another responsibility that comes after the funeral.

In Laoag City, cemetery spaces are rented rather than purchased, according to Ibao.

The rate he cited is P2,500 for five years. Families may renew their rental arrangements to continue using the burial space.

It is another expense that must be considered even after thousands of pesos have already been spent on funeral arrangements.

Five years may sound like a long time, but for families who continue visiting their loved ones, it is another period during which they must maintain the right to use the burial space.

For others, circumstances may eventually make it difficult to return.

Ibao has seen graves that are no longer maintained, and he continues to clear some of them in the hope that someone might still come back.

There is an unusual sadness in this part of his work.

He prepares graves for the newly deceased while also tending to the resting places of people who have been there for years.

Some have visitors. Some do not.

And while families may eventually move forward with their lives, the grave remains.

THE PRICE THAT GRIEF CANNOT PAY

There is something contradictory about death.

It separates people permanently, yet it sometimes brings the living together.

The representative of Baquiran Funeral Homes has witnessed families reuniting during wakes after years of separation.

Relatives who rarely see one another suddenly gather in the same room. Family members return home. People who have become distant find themselves standing beside one another because someone they shared a life with has died.

Sometimes, it takes a funeral for a family to see each other again.

But death also brings regrets.

The representative recalled seeing people crying at wakes, asking forgiveness from someone who can no longer respond.

Some realize only after a person dies how much that person meant to them. Others remember the kindness they received or the things they should have said while there was still an opportunity.

There is a particular sadness in watching someone ask forgiveness in front of a coffin.

The apology may be sincere. The tears may be real. But the person being asked to forgive is no longer able to answer.

What if they had spoken earlier?

What if they had visited more often?

What if they had forgiven each other while there was still time?

These are questions that death leaves behind.

The representative said people should learn to appreciate those around them while they are still alive. Everyone has a story, and no one should be remembered only for their mistakes.

Forgiveness matters because nobody knows when another person will be gone.

Inside a funeral home, these are not merely words of advice. They are realities that unfold repeatedly, in front of people who have made a profession out of helping families say goodbye.

The irony is that death sometimes makes people realize the value of relationships they had taken for granted.

By then, however, there may be nothing left to do except remember.

As Undas approaches, cemeteries across the Philippines will once again fill with families remembering those who came before them.

Some will travel long distances to visit graves. Others will bring flowers, light candles, clean tombstones and spend hours beside the remains of people they continue to miss.

For some, it will be a reunion. For others, it will be a quiet conversation with someone who can no longer answer.

Meanwhile, the people who work in the funeral industry will continue doing what they have done for years.

Ruby Undang will prepare another body, speaking to the deceased as he carefully performs his work.

The people at Baquiran Funeral Homes will arrange another funeral, helping another family navigate the financial and emotional demands of losing someone.

Cesar Ibao will dig another grave, preparing another resting place while continuing to maintain spaces that some families may never visit again.

Their work is different, but they share one reality: they encounter death every day while witnessing the lives it leaves behind.

The price of dying can be calculated.

P35,000 for a basic funeral package. P50,000 or P70,000 for other arrangements. More than P500,000 for some coffins. P2,500 for five years of cemetery rental.

These are amounts that families must somehow find a way to pay.

For those living paycheck to paycheck, the expenses can mean borrowing money, asking relatives for assistance or sacrificing necessities that would otherwise go toward food, education and daily living.

But there is another cost.

It is the child who will grow up without a parent. The spouse who must learn to sleep alone. The family that will never again sit around the same table with everyone present.

It is the empty chair, the unanswered phone call and the familiar voice that will only exist in memory.

There is no invoice for these things.

No funeral package can include the years a family will spend missing someone. No amount of money can bring back the person inside the coffin. And no grave, however beautiful, can replace the home that person once shared with the living.

Perhaps this is what makes the stories of Undang, the funeral home representative and Ibao so deeply human.

They see death from beginning to end.

They know what happens to the body, what families must pay and where the deceased eventually rests.

They also see the people who remain, carrying a grief that does not disappear when the funeral service ends.

Death may be the end of one person's life, but it becomes the beginning of an entirely different life for those left behind.

A life of adjustments, responsibilities, memories and, sometimes, regrets.

The funeral eventually ends. The bills may be settled. The grave may grow quiet.

But for the people who loved the person buried beneath it, saying goodbye is something that never really ends.

In the Philippines, the price of dying is not simply what a family pays for a coffin, embalming service or a piece of cemetery land. It is also everything they must sacrifice, everything they must endure and everything they must learn to live without after someone they love is gone.

And perhaps the most painful part is that while the dead have finally found their resting place, the living are the ones who must find a way to carry on.