The best thing was that she could stay at home while the treatment ran its course, up to 24 hours. Juanma entered the Insular de Gran Canaria Hospital with his mother, Lala, while his uncle Francisco had already been admitted hours earlier and taken by ambulance. The pain was so intense that walking was impossible, and morphine became a necessity. “We decided to bring him in because they planned to move him by ambulance anyway”, the family member recalled.
There were patches and medications, but every two weeks he needed another application. Francisco had battled cancer for five years. “Chemotherapy, radiation… nothing worked. He was in a terminal stage with metastases”, the niece explained. Francisco arrived at the hospital dazed and in severe pain, his cognitive clarity eroded by illness. The cancer had begun in the trachea and, by then, had spread to the head, leaving family members distressed. The hospital staff cited Covid protocols and told them to go home, insisting that even a double A medical card could not guarantee a stay for vulnerable patients. The family checked the contact numbers they had provided, hopeful for a call once treatment concluded. They were told the lines would be used and that someone would reach them when it was safe to do so. Time passed, and the family’s search for Paco grew desperate.
Francisco Macías, 57, disappeared within hours. After a morphine injection and discharge, security barred him from returning to the center for repeated attempts to stay. The family said guards told him he could not remain on the premises four times in a row. Their accounts say the hospital’s responses were inconsistent, and Paco never returned. A family poster circulated across the country as the search began in earnest. [Citation: Family statement or corroborating report]
Francisco had arrived with confusion, pain, and severe cognitive impairment. The family pressed for continuity of care, fearing that losing him to the illness would be one thing, but losing him to a broken system would be another. A search-and-response landscape emerged as the family and supporters spread word and prepared materials to aid the investigation. The search would become a long, defining chapter, underscoring the fragility of care in the face of a deadly disease and a hospital system stretched thin. [Citation: Family statement]
“Please get out of the hospital.”
Juanma remembered dialing from home around 9:00 PM. Night had fallen, and the hospital had assured him that once treatment concluded they would call. The call never came. His mother, Francisco’s sister, grew increasingly anxious. Around 22:50, with no news, another call to the hospital returned the same message: Paco had been discharged and was on his way out. [Citation: Family account]
“The doctor thought discharge was appropriate.”
Chaos, fear, and pain followed this decision. The mother phoned in tears, insisting that the hospital should not release him. Juanma fled in fear, moving through rain-soaked streets. His uncle, weakened by cancer, wandered in a confused state toward a nearby highway and a coastline district known for its fishermen. In a moment of hopeful resignation, Juanma imagined he might find Paco at the hospital door, yet the search continued elsewhere. The hospital’s decision left the family stunned – and furious. [Citation: Family account]
“The guard said, ‘This is my job; they told me he had to leave Insular… we told him to leave the headquarters, we got him out of the hospital.’”
Inside the hospital, Juanma confronted staff about the discharge. The response was blunt: the doctor had seen fit for discharge. The shock turned to fear as the nephew looked for his uncle in a ward that no longer contained him. The family’s attempt to understand what happened collided with a wall of official statements. [Citation: Family account]
Direction toward the pier
Francisco began to drift, walking alone and bewildered. The security guard suggested his path was toward the harbor and the fishing district of San Cristóbal. Juanma followed, trying to keep pace with a man who was battling terminal illness and who might still be found. The reality of his condition weighed heavily with every step they took. [Citation: Family narrative]
“Forensic Police checked the hospital cameras; he tried to enter the hospital five times.”
From one street to the next, Paco was not found. The island became a wide net of hope and worry as the family combed both coastal and inland areas. Posters spread, calls were made, and even the most ordinary corners were inspected. The family had arranged for days off to search, and, in the end, they would sacrifice much more in the pursuit of answers. [Citation: Family statement]
Security footage was reviewed and matched the family’s recollections: Paco had attempted to re-enter the hospital several times. The conversations with the hospital were saved on phones, and the family could verify the back-and-forth they had with staff. They had asked that Paco be kept under observation, and were told this was not possible. The sharing of information created a record of the dissonance between what was promised and what occurred. [Citation: Forensic report]
Juanma, his mother, and Paco’s siblings kept vigil day after day, night after night. The town organized, but the loss lingered. The family explained how much time was sacrificed and how much was lost in the process. The town, which had always welcomed them, offered some support, yet the search stretched time and resources to the limit. [Citation: Community accounts]
Squats, hutches
With no documents, no phones, no belongings, the search for Paco seemed to vanish into thin air. The posters sparked calls from people who had seen him, but the results were inconclusive. The family moved through streets, mountains, and the sea — all while hopeful calls came in from strangers who believed they had spotted him. The reality, however, remained elusive: a man with terminal cancer, morphine patches, and a hospital-bound fate wandered a sunlit island, and no one could say where he went. Yet the family kept faith alive, convinced that the island could still offer a chance to find him. [Citation: Family account]
Quiet life
In Romeral, San Bartolomé de Tirajana, Paco, known as el canelillo for reasons of nickname and warmth, lived a quiet life. A baker by trade, he cared for his family when illness struck an elder and offered a steady, gentle presence. He walked the town with a calm air, listening to rock and sharing a pipe with friends and family. Neighboring voices remembered him as kindly, always there to lend a hand. The community still speaks of him with affection, asking themselves what happened and why his path wandered so far from home. The nephew, Juanma, recalls a longing to answer, a wish to find him, and a question that remains unanswered to this day. [Citation: Family memory]