My Mom’s 1st year death anniversary

Just as I was typing this column the prayer for my Mom’s death anniversary has been started. See here in the Philippines in the Catholic faith if someone dies there is a 9 days prayer going when the person died. Same thing going on during the first year anniversary of the death. There is a 9 days prayer before the said date. Just like my mom, she died October 5th, so the 9 days prayer started September 27th. We did this since my mom was Catholic all her life. We honor her faith.

On the said 9 days prayer, my sister hired her neighbor to lead the prayer. There is a certain prayer that you have to do for the death. It’s like a Rosary in the Catholic that someone will lead. It will take like almost an hour for the prayer. It’s kind of nice because its really a prayer dedicated for my mom. While the prayer is going on a few sticks of candles should be lit up. Some family they had something lit in the altar until the 9 days prayer is over. Not sure if my sister did that though. After the prayer you have to feed the people that attended the prayer. It could be like a few to a lot of people. The last prayer would be done at the grave of my mom. We will be there on the 5th of October. My siblings wants us to stay there on the graves the whole day I think. Honestly I will follow them on this thing because the last time I attended an events like this during my sister’s death. That was about 30 years ago. With my Dad I was in the States, but went home for the 1st year anniversary but didn’t pay much attention because it was hard for me to accept his death. Plus I didn’t go to the grave of my dad at that time with my siblings because the security in our place in the farm at that time was unstable. So I didn’t really think of it. So with my moms death anniversary I will be off to GenSan for the event.

With the last days of prayer most families here in the Philippines will butcher animals for that. For us my siblings bought a whole pig and it will be butchered the early morning on the 5th of October. We will also have some chickens for the other family members that will not eat pork. Some of my family in the Farm might be coming to celebrate with us. Really it could be a lot of people or just us family.  My mom died in the farm, but we will celebrate the anniversary in GenSan since my mom lives in my sister’s house for a long time and also my mom and my dad and my sister are now buried in GenSan anyway.

Some families here they will cook the food in the house and bring it to the grave and eat there. I don’t know if that’s what my siblings are planning to do. I think that’s the trend nowadays. I hope not like that. My parents never brought us to the grave of my sister and my grandparents before and eat there. I hope we will just do the prayers there at my mom’s grave and go home and eat at the house. Really whatever my siblings do I will just follow them and will see what happens. I am not going to tell them what to do. Me and my siblings are one for my moms memory. I thank them for being there during her sickness.

Mama may you rest in peace. Bob and I love you very much!

” For all our readers here who has families that was hit by Ondoy our prayers are with you.“

Thank you Everybody!

I just came back from the funeral of my mother. It was hard at first loosing my mom, but we are happy at the same time for her that her suffering is over. She’s been sick for a long time already. It’s hard on us, her kids watching her suffer. I’m glad that God let us be ready in our hearts when He took my mom away.

From the Bayoy clan & the Martin clan I thank you all for praying for us. It was really difficult times for us. Your thoughts and prayers really helped us a lot. My mom’s wake lasted a week. My goodness I didn’t know that we had to do a lot of paperwork before the funeral. Plus we include inside her tomb the remains(bones) of my dad and my sister.

My dad and sister died and were buried in our land in the farm. That was over 15 and 20+ years ago. A few years back the Philippine Government passed a law that prohibits loved ones to be buried in the private property. All dead people have to be buried in cemetery. So when my mom’s illness got worse, me and my siblings then are talking of buying a place in a nice cemetery in GenSan. I’m glad we did. To have Mama buried we have to get her death certificate, it should be signed by somebody at the health department it should have a seal from the municipal or the city where you get it. We also got a burial permit so that you can present it to the cemetery personnel that its okay for my mom to be buried there. Really figure one week of wake before you finish up the paperwork and your love one be buried.

For my dad and my sister we had to get the original copy of the death certificate they have when they died 20 years ago. So my sisters and nieces went to the NSO office and have it authenticated there. We also have to get an exhume permit, that its okay to dig and get their bones. And a transport permit, that its okay to bring my dad and sister’s bones to GenSan from the farm. Of course the burial permit for them too. Really, we finished all the paperwork that friday. My mom was buried Sunday. I’m so glad we finished everything in time because the offices were closed during weekends.

My mom’s wake was at St. Peter in Apopong, GenSan. I am impressed with that place, nice and clean. They always come to the chapel where my mom lies and clean it like 5 times a day. On that chapel there is one room that some family member can rest (sleep) and it has its own bathroom too. Also if the family member of the deceased living outside the outside the city you are in, or living abroad you can view the wake on the internet. They had a camera that is just focused in front where there casket is located. I highly recommend this place. I didn’t get paid or anything to endorse them. I am just happy with the service they did for my mom. To St. Peter of General Santos, I thank you for the good services you gave to my family while there in your place. You guys really listen of what we asked for.

My mom laid to rest at Forest Lake Memorial Cemetery. It used to be called San Carlos Memorial Cemetery. The people there are nice too. Very nice place too. To the people there thank you so much.

Again to all of you guys our Readers “Thank You” so much for the message, prayers and the love you gave us. My family really appreciate very much. God bless!

Mabuhay!

The Journey is complete

Zosima Rodriguez Bayoy, born December 26, 1928 died on October 5, 2008 at 12:30pm in Patag, Sarangani Province on the Island of Mindanao in the Philippines.  She is survived by seven children, five girls and two boys.  Yes, Feyma’s mother passed away yesterday, and we were all relieved to know that her suffering had ended.  It was something that we had expected would happen for quite a long time now, but you just never know when the exact time is until it happens.

As I wrote last week, Feyma had gone to Patag to see her mother, as the end was nearing.  She stayed only one day and then came home to Davao.  It was hard for her to see her mother in such condition, so she didn’t stay long.  This weekend, on Saturday, Feyma went back for another visit, and was with her mother when she passed on Sunday at 12:30 p.m..  I haven’t seen Feyma yet since the incident occurred, and she is still in Patag as I write this.  I’m not yet sure when she will return home, but I suspect that it will be tomorrow maybe, and she will make at least one or two more trips back during the mourning period.

What I do know is that when I just talked to Feyma on the phone, she was really broken up, crying a lot.  Of course, how could she be blamed?  She just lost her last parent a few minutes ago.  While she is in a state of high emotion, and grief, I know that she is also relieved that her mother is no longer suffering, and she had suffered for a long time now.

I had known mama for 18 years plus, and she and I had a close relationship.  We never really were able to communicate on a language level, but somehow we made a connection.  She could not speak any English, for many of those years I could not speak any Bisaya.  By the time I started learning Bisaya, she was already in bad shape and unable to communicate anyway.  But still, we loved each other a lot, and we both knew it.  I’m happy for her that she is now with Papa.

There’s not much more to say, except that I know that Feyma would appreciate your thoughts and prayers as she goes through this hard time.  Of course her grief will pass, and fond memories of her mother will take the place of the grief in her heart.  Feyma’s childhood was not always easy, and her mother could be quite a disciplinarian at times, but I know that Feyma has forgiven her mother for those days, and holds nothing but love in her heart for her mother.  I’m very happy that Feyma was able to resolve that situation before her mother passed on.  No matter what, I think all of us have certain issues with our parents from our childhood, and it’s always good to resolve those and put them behind us.  If we’re unable to resolve those, it could be something that we will regret forever.

Mama, I’m happy you have finished your journey and have rejoined Papa.  I’m particularly happy that I got to be a small part of that journey, and shared some life experience is with you.  I will never forget you.

The Fullest Moon

Grandmother died at the Philippine General Hospital last Tuesday at precisely 9:21 p.m. May she rest in peace.

When we arrived in the evening, a group of doctors and nurses had crowded round her bed at the ward to make her last a little longer. The males among them took turns performing CPR, while the females pronounced numbers and marked things on their papers. Bed Two had become a makeshift emergency room: green curtains demarcated grandmother from the rest, several pumps and machines were plugged in, and everyone became pregnant with repressed agitation. Although it wasn’t quite as chaotic an emergency as I had expected it to be, nothing made any sense still. Maybe few things ever do.

We stood there watching the ECG monitor, or rather I remember I did, while father made phone calls and mother whispered prayers. The lime-coloured waves were drawn like an outline of a strange valley, and I tried not to observe what my siblings were doing. The other patients looked on solemnly, with pertinent curiosity, forgetting perhaps for a moment their own afflictions and cancers and injuries while searching, as we all did, for signs, or a sign, of life from grandmother.

But she only lay frightfully on her bed – legs open, eyes closed, mouth agape, all kinds of tubes stuck into all parts of her body. Nothing in her position was voluntary; she was a limp figure, a shadow of her former, healthier self. When I watched over her the previous night, she still had not remembered my name (Gerry? Michael?), though at one point, when I least expected any movement, she suddenly grabbed me by the shoulder with her two hands and kissed my forehead. It was a tender kiss that made an even more tender smacking sound.

As I write this, I am waiting again – along with father, cousin Jacques, his wife Neslyn, and neighbourhood kid Reyboy – outside, at the parking lot of the hospital, waiting this time for St. Peter’s Memorial Services to come fetch the body of Hermogena Bassig which lies currently at the morgue. It has been almost four hours since she “expired”, but father explains that we should stay here. We can’t let the other funeral parlours rove the morgue and take grandmother away, since mother, who stopped paying installments to St. Peter’s last February, just might reactivate and regain hold of her policy upon the main office’s reconsideration. It’s a business the kind of which is most painstaking at a time when to a person all kinds of business seem trifling.

So we wait. The engine of our white Mazda van is turned off while we dry some tears. The one o’clock morning air swarms with an obscene amount of mosquitoes; thus I am forced to climb the vehicle’s roof, where insects are significantly scantier and the breeze is a bit cooler and where I can oversee the flow of late traffic along Taft Avenue. There’s also a vague neon skyline I see of a couple of Manila hotels. And when I lie down I see nothing but the twinkling collection of scattered scars in the vast sky.

It seems too romantic, even for a tragedy, and my thoughts drift to all kinds of directions; I am reminded of a scene from About Schmidt in which Jack Nicholson talks to his deceased wife while seated on the roof of his big trailer. Whereas in the movie, it is a shooting star from which Nicholson receives cosmic tidings, mine is brought by the fullest moon I’ve seen in my whole life. It is divinely bright, and it shines with a thick outer glow at a distance that seems delicately close. I try to forget that grandmother’s life is over, and to think instead that she is, with her toothless smile, watching us from above.

On the road home…

It seems that Feyma’s mother has embarked on a trip.  She is on the road home.  She actually started this journey several years ago, but over the past few days, it seems that she has nearly reached her destination.  I am not with her and can’t see what she is seeing, but I am sure that a lot of people are waiting for her with open arms.

We got the call from one of Feyma’s sisters on Friday last week.  Mama seemed to be very near death.  The timing for this was not good, but no matter when something like this happens, it can never be “good timing,” can it?  You see, the call came on Friday afternoon, and one of our kids was scheduled to have his birthday party on Saturday.  Kids don’t understand these things, and for a child a birthday party is a big thing, so Feyma made the decision to stay in Davao until Sunday.  Sunday morning, though, she headed back to her birthplace, Patag, Sarangani.  Thankfully, Mama held on during this time, and is still alive, as I write this.  So, they will get to visit with her mom, at least one last time.

Over the last five years or so, there have been a number of times when we thought that Mama would pass soon, but each time she made it through.  This time though, it seems much more serious, and we don’t expect that she will last much longer.  She can no longer talk, hasn’t eaten for several days, or even drank anything, so she is in very bad shape.

I would have liked to have gone myself to see her one last time.  Although Mama and I have never been able to communicate much (she doesn’t speak any English at all), we always had a close relationship.  I know it sounds strange, but that’s just the way it’s been.  However, neither the kids nor I went on his trip.  Unfortunately, that part of the country, Sarangani, has been somewhat critical in the last month or two.  There were some MILF attacks in the area, and army operations in the area are still ongoing.  Because of this, we felt it was best for the whole family to not go.  I really didn’t want Feyma to go either, but how could I say no, it’s her mother after all.  When somebody very close in the family is dying, sometimes you have to  take a chance.

Feyma plans to stay just one day, and then return to Davao.  Of course, she might stay longer, but that depends on her mother’s health.  If things stay as they are now though Feyma will return by tomorrow.  I know she would like to stay longer to be with her mother, but with kids and everything sometimes you can’t always do what you want to do.  In addition, I hate being separated from Feyma, if she is out of town, I’m always on edge.

Mama has suffered many strokes in the last several years, and her health is very bad.  Although you never wish for anybody to die, we do hope that Mama’s suffering will end soon.  We take comfort in the fact that we know that when Mama leaves us, she will join Papa in a place far better than where we are now.  And, she won’t suffer any more.

I’m looking forward to seeing Feyma again, and I hope that having seen Mama she feels okay about the situation, even though I know this is a hard time for her.

Hermogena's Twilight, II

The rather dilettantish occasions I had showed up in at the Instituto Cervantes Manila near Taft Avenue were interjected with less sophisticated visits to the Philippine General Hospital (PGH), which is along Taft Avenue. We’d decided, you see, that grandmother needed urgent medical attention.

Last weekend I made an unfashionably late entrance to the cultural center for the World Book Day Open House, and tomorrow I am scheduled to see a concerto by a classical trio from Taiwan. (I am convinced that the best things in life are free!) Today, however, I – along with family – had to drive yet once more to the student-populated area of Manila, an area noteworthy for its ugly and beautiful honesty. Of course, traffic today was terrible as usual, and the buses belched black smoke as expected.

My first impression of PGH, upon our arrival, was that it didn’t look the same as before – ‘before’ meaning about two, three years ago when I went to visit a terminally-ill aunt; thick tarpaulin banners (all congratulatory) now hung about the edifice; large old-fashioned murals decorated the walls; old plaques had been wiped clean and new ones, installed. Even the windows were now of multi-colored stained glass with round patterns, as in church, or perhaps really after the effect of church.

Did we enter an insufficiently-funded museum by mistake? I made these observations as I pushed grandmother on her wheelchair, ever so carefully, as if we were in an old park at which the renewed scenery was to be taken note of, if not admired.

And it was convenient (at least to my wandering eyes) that the Department of Surgery was located at the southernmost wing; strolling past the other units, I peeped at the slightly opened doors to see the Neurology ICU, where blanket-covered patients were sleeping restfully alongside their harboring IV drips; and the Plastic Surgery Department, where, at its reception area, a framed painting of a naked woman’s back (very Helen Hunt in As Good As It Gets) was displayed; the psychiatric wing I didn’t need to witness.

Wheeling grandmother farther, I saw that the interior of the charity wards had now been painted with a very gentle caramel, and this sharpened the view of human figures lying on the white beds with their disfigured arms, throbbing heads, bandaged feet, and bleeding noses. Initially, I did mistake the renovated wards as the pay wards, though of course the overpopulation of the above-described patients plainly indicated otherwise. It indicated ‘charity’.

Grandmother’s checkup was scheduled to take place at the periphery of Ward Six. It was almost in a separate wing, dark, isolated, with paint peeling off, broken schoolroom chairs, candy wrappers dancing with the yellow leaves on the cold floor, peanut shells, plastic bags, two stray black cats. (I have no idea why a hospital would have two stray black cats inside its premises, regardless of its being a government hospital. What if someone superstitious accidentally passed them by?) But everything was peaceful and quiet. Along the hallway, I sat dangerously on the steel ledge to regard the new playground below. They said it was a project of politician donors for specially-educated children.

Not long after, grandmother was called to one of the wing’s clinics, though she just as quickly emerged from a very brief consultation. She was finally to be confined. Resident doctor of Surgery Department was to be there shortly. Father made some phone calls while appearing to need a cigarette.

And so it was that we waited by this wing’s hallway for over four hours, waiting anxiously and furiously for a ‘Hazel’ to see to us and hand over grandmother’s admission orders, waiting as the sun set and the dirty wind blew, waiting while grandmother slept through the seconds and the minutes and the hours. For my own amusement, I had brought a book, but I fancied that it was a little depressing to be reading Dostoevsky’s The Idiot in such a setting. I managed only a few chapters.

And then at last! The papers! They had not forgotten us after all. Quickly we rose to find out where grandmother would be staying. Ward Six, they said; another charity ward with caramel walls. Jorgen, my prodigiously athletic cousin, lifted our still sleeping grandmother to her new bed, and immediately her adult diapers were refreshed. Of course we had to lift a blanket to cover the scene: the patients’ beds were no more than just about twenty-four inches apart, making a tincture of privacy impossible and leaving between these short gaps a humble white table where one could put things and small towels perhaps damp with alcohol and such. As with others’, several tiny cockroaches slyly and rapidly crawled on grandmother’s table. She didn’t notice, though. She slept all throughout the initial admission procedures, with her eyeglasses on, as if it made her see her dreams more clearly.

Tomorrow, after the concerto at Cervantes, I will be walking to the hospital to tend to grandmother. I believe this won’t cause any inconvenience to any party. I will read, the nurses will be by their stations, and grandmother will sleep. I’ll enjoy her company. And perhaps I too will cherish imagining her dreams – come what may.

Hermogena's Twilight, I

From the red bed where she lay all day, she is being carried by my father and a housekeeper straight to the dinner table. Between both her armpits are the anchors of love. But it’s a discomfiting scene: an aged, wrinkled, silver-haired woman, in disheveled clothing and adult diapers; with a stainless steel cane on one hand and her beloved purse on the other; reciting rosaries in Latin one minute then denouncing her fate in a native dialect the next. Her pathetically feeble feet are all but amputated. I observe with a helpless gaze and listen from the shadows of the stairway.

This is my grandmother. Lola Nena. Her maiden name is Hermogena Saquing. She smoked cigars when she was younger.

They were once perfectly brown, her feet. But with the sudden siege of some debilitating disease – diabetes, blocked heart vessels, osteoarthritis, the toll of age, we still don’t know because the doctors haven’t completely figured it out yet – they had turned green. And then black. They resemble spoiled, hardened vegetables. The feet carry a heavy stench, too.

A wheelchair had been procured not more than a month ago, but we found out that grandmother was too weak to even allow herself to be lifted to the device’s seat. Her appetite has diminished; she has lost over forty pounds in less than half a year and the multi-colored pills seemed not to have helped any. All she eats is corn and cuchinta.

There have been nights when I sat here, at this very computer table, while everyone else slept, and she had cried out, Eddie, Eddie, help me, can you hear me, Eddie. It would be impossible for father to hear her, of course, with him sleeping upstairs and her managing only the faintest voice. Every single time I rushed over to her room, grandmother was sprawled on the floor wailing and waiting for Eddie.

Here now, here now. Are you going to the bathroom, Lola?

I was just on my way back. I thought nobody would hear me. Is that you, Eddie?

I’m going to carry you to your bed, okay? Then you’re going to be covered with your blanket and you’re going to go to sleep.

Thank you, Eddie. Good night.

It’s difficult to understand grandmother now, to say the least. The rest of us are embroiled in our attempts to make sense of her world. She asks for coffee all the time, always demanding a scalding cup in the middle of these summer days. And lately she has been having hallucinations, too. She had always mixed up her grandchildren’s names, like I went to become Francis and Josemaria became Miguel and so on and so forth. But now there’s an invisible child beside her daughter-in-law when they talk, and darkness in the brightly lit living room, and her husband – my late grandfather – appearing and waving at her during strange, esoteric moments.

Last week, on the morning of her eighty-ninth birthday, I saw grandmother sitting outside on a wooden bench under the shade of our tamarind tree. Just then a mustached taho vendor appeared, plying his trade in our street with an advertising howl. I bought a ten-peso cup, then stirred the bean curd, the tapioca balls, and the sugar syrup in much the manner of someone who meticulously wraps the only gift he can afford for a loved one.

Happy birthday, Lola. Now finish this here; it’s good for you.

Is that you, Miguel?

Yes, it’s me.

I greeted her again and ran my fingers through her silver hair. Using her free hand, grandmother took off her foggy spectacles. I saw that she wanted to wipe the tears that glazed her eyes. She appeared embarrassed. I didn’t know by what.

The sun in the morning of her birthday had diffused into twilight, and so, of course, as in the following mornings and those to come. Just as determinedly, however, I am not going to be counting her days.

Going “home”

In my time of living here in the Philippines, I have met and know a lot of ex-pats here. I know people from countries all over the world – USA, Australia, all over Europe, the Middle East, even Africa – who live here. In meeting and talking with such foreign friends, one topic that always seems to come up sooner or later is traveling back “home” – where you came from. It’s inevitable that the subject will come up.

I know ex-pats here who travel home 3 or 4 times per year, they spend about an equal amount of time at home as they do here in their new home. I know ex-pats who go back once per year, and I know others who go home every 2 or 3 years. So far, though, I haven’t met anybody else like me… I have been here 8 years now, and I have yet to go home. Actually, let me change my wording on that… I have yet to go back to the States. I consider Davao to be my home. But, you know what I mean, right?

Other ex-pats are always surprised when I tell them that I haven’t gone back to the States. They ask why. I tell them that I have no reason or explanation on why I don’t go back, I just have no need or desire to do so. Really and honestly, there is nothing there that is calling me back. In regards to seeing family, I don’t have much close family remaining. My father died in 1992. I had a younger sister who died in 1979. I have one brother, but we are not close. My mother is still alive, and she comes here to see us in Davao on a regular basis. So, my mother is about the only close family I have in the States, but I see her regularly anyway. I don’t really have a business or any kind of job that would bring me back to the States (some of my Internet businesses are US based, but I can do that all through the Internet anyway). So, what would bring me back to the States?

I do have a plan to go back to the States for a vacation sometime in the next few years, though. You see, my youngest son, Jared, was only one month old when we moved here, so he does not remember the States. I feel that we should bring him back so that he can have a glimpse at his heritage on my side of the family. Maybe we’ll bring the kids to Disneyland or something like that. But, beyond that, I just can’t think of anything that makes me want to go back again!

How about you? If you lived here, how often do you think you would go back? If you do live here already, what has been your practice? I’d be interested to hear!

Filipino Funerals… Quite a "Send Off"!

This article isn’t aiming to be morbid, but death is something everyone who moves here must be prepared to face. Also, the funeral customs here are very different and, actually, can be quite fascinating.

I’ve been told, in no uncertain terms, what will happen to me when I die. I don’t particularly care, though the idea of being freeze-dried or squashed into a diamond does have a certain appeal. Perhaps mummification or a decent breakfast for a shark? In any event, I’d sort of like something neat… Nope. No discussion allowed. The choice isn’t mine. I will end up in the family plot in Abulug, in an above-ground vault, much like is common in New Orleans and for much the same reason. (High water table) Becky will be right next to me on one side, possibly on top of me, depending on the vault they build, with her mother, father, aunts, uncles, and so on all around. No need to buy a plot. That’s just where they put their dead… Including the one Kano in town.

Abulug’s cemetery is interesting. You go down the main road from town and the road gets smaller, narrower, and less paved. About 1 km out, in a patch of weeds, you are there, about 100m from the beach. The town cemetery is quite old, and five or six generations of Rebecca’s family are buried (entombed, more appropriately) there. Some of the vaults are even in inscribed in Spanish or Latin! Part of Rebecca’s family comes from Bulala, about 10 km further down the road, on the river bank opposite Aparri. Twenty years ago, a typhoon hit Bulala directly, wiping out much of the town, including the cemetery. Bodies and bones, and old coffins washed away or their occupants became unentombed. So, the all of the bodies in Bulala’s cemetery were moved to Abulug. The family was reunited, in a manner of speaking. Tombs in Abulug’s cemetery range from the elaborate to the very basic cement vault. Nice coat of whitewash, perhaps a candle holder, a small marker added or written into the cement, and there you go. Remember, Filipinos can be very superstitious. People generally stay away due to bad spirits and so on, except……

Twice a year, on All Souls Day, and the anniversary of your death (If you are a patriarch or matriarch), your spirit can expect a family picnic and party over your bones. Your spot will be weeded, cleaned up, candles lit for your soul, lots of food and drink passed around, a few prayers, and everyone goes home happy.

This year, Rebecca had two uncles from her father’s side pass away within a single month. Her father was from a family of 12 siblings and there are now 4 remaining. There are some very interesting differences between Filipino funerals and Western funerals. First off, her family are all Roman Catholic. Now, in the States, that means that you attend a Mass. In the Philippines, that means you attend several Masses. Both uncles’ funerals were pretty much similar.

Family is of the utmost importance here… It is expected that, barring some unfortunate accident, you will die at home, surrounded by your family. How many old age homes are here? Very, very few. You are expected to care for your parents, or childless Aunts or Uncles, regardless of circumstance. That is just how it is done. Your elders brought you into this world and you take care of them seeing them into the next. So, ideally, you live a long life, and depart surrounded by your family and your parish priest, who gives you last rites. Families here immediately go to the surviving children and offer comfort and support. Again, families in the Philippines are large, and this can be quite an event. Also, keep in mind, that in a country where 15% of the population are OFWs, this can mean many visitors from overseas. Family are expected to contribute what they can towards feeding, lodging, and entertaining all those who come from out of town. No big deal? Well, both funerals I attended had over 800 visitors! That is a LOT of people showing up.

The local NSO is then notified you departed, a Death Certificate is issued, and your body is stripped, washed, and wrapped in a shroud. Your body is then sent to the local “funeral parlor” for embalming, coffin, makeup, dressing, and hairstyling. Depending on your finances, they may not be able to afford makeup, but you will be dressed and embalming is a “must”, as you will soon see. (The survivors really don’t want you going ripe!) In the provinces, “funeral parlor” might mean nothing more than a nipa hut. Don’t worry, you won’t be there long.

You are dressed in your finest, placed in the coffin, and you return home. The relatives have cleared a room in your house, usually the sala, there is an altar to hold your body, and the room is decorated in Black and White crepe. White? Well, remember that this is Asia… One of the Chinese customs that carried over here is the use of the color white for mourning, in addition to black. There will be one or several pictures of you taken while you were alive above the casket, flowers galore around your coffin, possibly a winking Jesus mirror or two and at least several crucifixes, and there may even be a karaoke machine playing religious music over a DVD with photos, if your family can afford it. The family will make you “comfortable” in a place of honor, and you will stay put for 9 days of continuous wake. Nine days… That’s a pretty long time. This is also open casket. You are dressed in your best for a reason… and you had better hope that the embalmer put a smile on your face, because your picture WILL be taken… Many, many times. In fact, Rebecca’s family album has a picture of everyone who has died, from their funeral.

You won’t be alone, though. Relatives and nearly everyone you have ever known in your lifetime will constantly stream in and out, viewing your corpse, touching your corpse, offering prayers, crying, and giving you a send off. The night before your burial is when the real party starts. Everyone is cooking, telling stories about the deceased, and, if your family can afford it, a band might be hired to play for the guests, and you, the guest of honor. The men will likely be drinking palm wine or Red Horse, while playing cards or gambling on Mah Jong games. The ladies will be directing the food, fussing over the children, and… You are not left out of the festivities. A plate will be prepared for you and left by the coffin as an offering.

When the band starts playing, it all comes to a screeching halt. Groups of relatives (Cousins in one group, uncles in another, and so on…), join the widow / widower and children and sing prayers / hymns for your soul. Holy water is sprinkled all over, and everyone pays their respects to you at least one time during the evening. After each group is finished, the music, gambling, eating and drinking continue up until the wee hours of the morning.

The next day, very early, they will come to take you to church. The procession will travel, mostly by foot, to the church, led by a band, and a Mass will take place. After communion, keepsakes will be placed in the coffin with you and each guest will place a flower in there with you. Remember, I said 800 visitors, so there will be a lot of flowers and you will probably be quite wet from all the holy water. You then will leave the Church, either proceeding to the cemetery, or, if you were prominent, to the town hall or gymnasium for another service.

Finally, the procession gets to the cemetery. A very quick service, some quick prayers, and the coffin is closed, perhaps after a final picture is taken. The “gravediggers” (masons), place you into the vault that was probably made a couple of days earlier, a few pieces of clothing or small keepsakes may be placed in, on, or next to your coffin, and, as the final “goodbyes” are said, they seal you in with cement. The whole crowd then returns to your home for another, more subdued, party. Thus begins a traditional one-year mourning period for the immediate family. The widow or widower will wear black and prayers will be said for you at Mass each week. No remarriage or dating during that time.

This may have seemed disrespectful, in the manner I wrote it, but no disrespect was intended. The above describes a provincial, Roman Catholic funeral. A Muslim funeral would be very, very different, as would an indigenous, such as Aeta, funeral. The whole funeral process is more a gathering of family and a celebration of your life, rather than mourning your death. It truly is a party and celebration. I find the whole process quite civilized, and it is very touching to see the care with which family prepare their deceased for the next world. It is also quite a bit longer and far more involved than most funerals in the West. There are no expensive plots, expensive funeral homes, or other truly costly acoutrements… The main expense, quite frankly, is feeding all of the visitors, but the family helps the survivors with those expenses.

It is also interesting to note that, as with other gatherings of family, such as weddings, all the dramas, jealousies, gossip, and so on perpetuates the occasion. If you are “wealthy”, poorer relatives may even ask for money! Because two uncles died so close together, the superstitions were rampant. One of the other uncles was quite drunk, and getting a little “out of sorts”. He started chastising another relative and she said, “You know, you’re next!”. He was very, very quiet after that! Needless to say, she was the subject of much gossip the following days. Below are a couple of pictures to illustrate what happens. Because mourning is a private event, I blocked the faces, but you will get the general idea.