Stories from
everyday life.生活裡的事

After my father was diagnosed with cancer, he fell at home one day and could not get up. My mother was having tests at the time and did not yet know whether she also had cancer. She could not lift him. They called a friend, who arrived an hour later.

This is one of the things that breaks my heart most. I find it hard to imagine that hour my father spent on the floor, waiting. I do not know what he was thinking. I keep thinking about someone needing help to get up, and having to wait that long.

I grew up in western Taiwan. As a child, I could tell what the neighbours were cooking and hear them scolding their children through the walls. Even some very private sounds carried. Living so close together, it was hard to keep much of daily life to yourself.

When I think about neighbourhood life in Taiwan, I also think of the close living arrangements in military dependents' villages. My own experience of neighbours has changed over time. Families have changed, people have moved away, and others have grown older. Now I cannot name many of the people in my building, or say much about their lives.

Living elsewhere, I often noticed how people responded to one another.

While studying in Portugal, I visited a friend in the central part of the country. Google Maps could not take us all the way to the door. My friend gave us coordinates, and our phones lost reception along the way. When the car reached the area and we were wondering where to go, people nearby came to help.

There was something strangely familiar about that. In a place I did not know at all, someone quickly noticed that we needed a hand.

Some of the people I met in Portugal reminded me of hosts I knew in Taiwan. They kept checking whether you had eaten enough, as if your still being hungry would mean they had not looked after you properly.

I also spent a few months in Copenhagen looking after someone's cats. At first, people seemed to keep a little distance from me. By then I was used to living in Europe with an unmistakably Asian face, but my experience in Copenhagen still felt quite different.

When I got stuck taking out the rubbish, had trouble with my bicycle, or could not work out some small everyday task, the help I received was usually straightforward. People helped me sort it out, and I could get on with my day. I did not feel the pressure of owing someone a favour. That everyday distance did not stop me from settling into life there.

I have close family in the United States and visit the West Coast every year. Friends told me it mattered to get to know people nearby who could actually look out for one another. Even if your interests or personalities did not quite match, those relationships still mattered. Otherwise, you could become very lonely, with no one to turn to when something happened.

At first, I did not feel that as strongly.

I live in central Kaohsiung. For me, seeing a doctor, visiting a government office, and doing many everyday errands are all possible within about a twenty-minute walk. I was so used to living this way that I rarely had to think about whether I could manage a trip out.

As my parents grew older in the same area, accompanying them made me notice limits I had usually overlooked. I knew the neighbourhood, but there was still much I needed to understand: which places were difficult for them to use, when they needed help, and whether that help could reach them.

I gradually noticed that well-intentioned policies and facilities still needed adjusting in everyday use. People's bodies change, and the help available to each person differs. Sometimes a small task you have always managed yourself can suddenly become difficult.

On the day my father fell, my parents knew whom to call, and someone was willing to come. It still took an hour for help to arrive.

These experiences have a lot to do with the questions I want to study. In Taiwan's super-aged society, how can someone with little money, limited family support, or restricted mobility keep seeing a doctor, applying for the help they need, running errands, and living the life they want?

These questions also affect how I work through Laguna. I accompany people to medical appointments and record what was discussed. I also join older adults for shopping, errands, or a meal out. As we spend time together, I want to understand what they need help with and what they want to do themselves. I need to listen carefully to know what I can do.

One day after coming home from hospital, I wanted to take a shower. My right leg was injured, and moving pulled at the wound. I wrapped it in plastic wrap, then slowly crawled to the bathroom.

I had never paid much attention to that threshold.

The bathroom floor got wet, there was no dry place to sit, and moving from the shower to the toilet was difficult. None of this had bothered me before. I had always liked this bathroom.

My family is particular about cleaning. We rinse the floor after a shower. There is no partition between the shower and the toilet, so it is easy to wash the whole floor. After my injury, the things I had liked about the room became things I had to work around.

For a while, I had to find new ways to do ordinary things in my own home.

That was early in my recovery. I can walk and run now, but I have no pain sensation in my right calf. I also have amblyopia, and I can still go out at night. Knowing which movements I can make tells you little about what I might find difficult in a particular space.

I encountered a similar gap when accompanying my mother to medical appointments.

My mother could not read. During her cancer treatment, the hospitals and transport systems she needed often relied on written instructions to tell people what to do next. I filmed her entire public transport route, hoping she could remember the journey without relying on words. That still was not enough, and she later took taxis.

These experiences made me pay closer attention to what different people encounter when they use the same space or follow the same instructions.

In the part of central Kaohsiung where I live, many places are within walking distance. Accompanying my parents through the same neighbourhood made me notice more limitations. During my months in Copenhagen, the space given to bicycles on the streets also made me think again about the surroundings I knew at home.

My own injury does not mean I know what another person needs. It made me notice details I had often passed over and spend more time listening to people describe how they use a place.

Through research, I want to understand what people with little money, limited family support, or restricted mobility encounter in medical care, welfare services, and everyday spaces. When I propose a design or a way to help, I need to keep checking whether people can actually use it, and what I have yet to consider.