Violence and Bloodshed: My Last Day at Changsheng Nursing Home
民國114年12月27日。 那是我82歲生日後的幾個月，本該是安享晚年的歲月，卻成了我生命中最悲慘、最無助，卻也最幸運的一天。那是我在「長生養老院」的最後一日，是我徹底脫離恐懼、告別死亡陰影的重生之日。
那天早晨，小兒子如常來餵我吃飯，大約十點半他離開後，病房陷入了一片死寂。我患有嚴重的青光眼，眼前只有無盡的黑暗，而這份黑暗竟成了看護肆意妄為的遮羞布。她欺我看不見，竟動手施暴。
我感覺到腹部傳來重擊，像是被血壓計或不明硬物狠狠撞擊，隨後是令人羞辱的凌虐——她用手指用力捏我的乳頭，更用某種利刃劃破了我左手的小指。鮮血不斷湧出，濕冷而黏稠，但那名看護卻置若罔聞，放任我的傷口流血，不給予任何醫療處置。
我像一棵被拋棄在荒野的老樹，在黑暗中驚恐地顫抖，不敢出聲，只能在心裡一遍又一遍地呼喚著小兒子的名字。
不久後，我那冷漠的大兒子來了。是他執意將我送進這座囚籠，面對我的傷勢，他僅用簡單的紗布與藥水隨意包紮，那敷衍的動作裡，沒有一絲為人子的憐憫。我只能靜靜地等，等那唯一能救我的微光出現。
下午四點，小兒子終於回來了。他發現了我的異狀，當他看到我受傷的手指，憤怒與心疼瞬間爆發。他撥打了113專線並報警，警察到場後，養老院的護理人員與那名施暴的看護也到了現場。
面對質疑，櫃檯護理師竟語氣輕蔑地說：「怎了？就那樣呀！有什麼問題嗎？他有巴金氏症，手發抖撞到不行嗎？」
小兒子指著紗布怒吼，她卻不以為然地冷笑：「不過是點小傷，大驚小怪什麼？拿紅藥水擦擦就好了。」
更令我寒心的是，警察竟在一旁對我說：「外勞也可以告你，要做筆錄等我值班再說。」養老院甚至拒絕提供任何交通工具協助我就醫。
直到119的救護員趕到，一切才有了轉機。他們看著我整隻紅腫的小指，嚴肅地說：「傷口切齊，疑似刀傷，且可能有骨折疑慮，必須立刻送急診。」
到了中國醫藥大學附設醫院，醫生診斷後立刻進行縫合。我的小指及周邊組織早已腫脹不堪，那一針一針，共縫了五針。在觀察期間，我那大兒子、大女兒及女婿竟也趕到了，他們疑似受了養老院的指使，試圖強行將我帶回那座地獄。
「不用住院了，現在就帶回去！」他們說。
小兒子隻身擋在病床前，與那三個人爆發劇烈衝突。直到醫院出面警告要報警處理，才將他們趕出急診室。但他們仍像幽魂般在醫院門外徘徊，與養老院的人交頭接耳。最終，我與小兒子趁著混亂，避開了他們的視線，狼狽卻堅定地離開了醫院，回到了家。
踏進那座離開了三年的家門，我再也忍不住，老淚縱橫。
那晚，是我人生的新起點。我終於脫離了魔掌，從死地中復生。
Violence and Bloodshed: My Last Day at Changsheng Nursing Home
December 27, 114th year of the Republic of China. A few months after my 82nd birthday, a time that should have been spent enjoying my retirement, it became the most tragic, helpless, yet also the most fortunate day of my life. It was my last day at Changsheng Nursing Home, the day I was reborn, finally free from fear and the shadow of death.
That morning, my youngest son came to feed me as usual. After he left around 10:30, the ward fell into a deathly silence. I suffer from severe glaucoma, seeing only endless darkness, which became a cover for the caregiver’s wanton abuse. Taking advantage of my blindness, she physically assaulted me.
I felt a heavy blow to my abdomen, like being struck by a blood pressure monitor or some unknown hard object, followed by humiliating torture—she forcefully pinched my nipples with her fingers and then slashed my left little finger with some kind of sharp blade. Blood gushed out, cold and sticky, but the caregiver ignored it, letting my wound bleed freely without offering any medical treatment.
Like an old tree abandoned in the wilderness, I trembled with terror in the darkness, afraid to utter a sound, only able to call out my youngest son’s name again and again in my heart.
Soon afterward, my indifferent eldest son arrived. He was the one who insisted on sending me to this prison. Faced with my injuries, he hastily bandaged them with simple gauze and medicine; his perfunctory actions showed not a trace of filial piety. I could only wait quietly, waiting for the only glimmer of hope that could save me.
At four o’clock in the afternoon, my youngest son finally returned. He noticed my abnormality, and when he saw my injured finger, anger and heartache erupted instantly. He dialed 113 and called the police. After the police arrived, the nursing home staff and the abusive caregiver also arrived at the scene.
Faced with my questions, the receptionist dismissively said, “What’s wrong? It’s just like that! Is there a problem? He has Parkinson’s disease, can’t his hand shake and he bump into something?” My youngest son pointed at the gauze and yelled, but she sneered dismissively, “It’s just a minor injury, what’s the big deal? Just wipe it with some antiseptic.”
What chilled me even more was that the police officer standing nearby said to me, “Foreign workers can also sue you. We’ll take your statement while I’m on duty.” The nursing home even refused to provide any transportation to help me get medical treatment.
It wasn’t until the 119 emergency services arrived that things changed. Looking at my swollen little finger, they said seriously, “The wound is cleanly cut, suspected to be a knife wound, and there may be a fracture. You must be taken to the emergency room immediately.”
At China Medical University Hospital, the doctor diagnosed it and immediately stitched it up. My little finger and surrounding tissue were already severely swollen; it took five stitches. During my observation period, my eldest son, eldest daughter, and son-in-law also arrived. They seemed to be acting on orders from the nursing home, attempting to forcibly take me back to that hellish place.
“No need to stay in the hospital, take me back now!” they said.
My younger son stood alone in front of the bed, and a violent confrontation erupted between them. Only after the hospital intervened, threatening to call the police, were they finally expelled from the emergency room. But they continued to linger outside the hospital like ghosts, whispering with the nursing home staff. Finally, taking advantage of the chaos, my younger son and I slipped out of their sight and, though disheveled, resolutely left the hospital, returning home.
Stepping into the home I had left three years ago, I could no longer hold back my tears.
That night marked a new beginning in my life. I had finally escaped their clutches, risen from the ashes.
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