By Mariya Karimjee and Michael Keller
Robert McFarlane woke early Monday morning, as he always did. He came to the breakfast table at six, dressed in a red plaid shirt and a beige baseball cap. His daughter prepared him breakfast. And then she went to get his medication.
Eleven months ago Robert McFarlane was diagnosed with dementia. Along with his medication he also has drops for his glaucoma and a range of vitamins that he takes daily. His family—his grandchildren and nephews—live on the same block and decided that being close to home would be best for him. His daughter wasn’t gone for very long. McFarlane was 80 and an active man.
His daughter returned to the table with his medication. But her father was gone.
The police alert would report that McFarlane was wearing beige corduroy pants, a brown crew neck sweater, and tan Timberland boots, but then the alert wouldn’t come for another 24 hours. Until then, his daughter and family canvassed the neighborhood—with no luck. It was a cold day. They worried that he had no food, no water. They talked to neighbors. They made calls. But no one had seen him.
Following his shortened breakfast, McFarlane’s morning was calm. While his daughter was preparing his pills, he was walking down the street, headed for the Broadway Junction subway station. His Brooklyn home lies one block from the entrance and he knew the way to the station well. McFarlane had lived on that street for 40 years. He had been a paratrooper stationed at Fort Bragg. His granddaughter says that he doesn’t like to be confined. When he got to the station he boarded a train, but which one is unknown.
Monday night came and McFarlane had still not been found. The eye drops for his glaucoma sat untouched. His family posted his picture on Facebook. On Tuesday morning the police asked the media’s help, sending out its alert along with a natty-looking McFarlane that appeared on news sites, blogs and across Twitter.
The department conducted a gridlock search, going street by street. A helicopter search yielded nothing. The family tried to inform everyone they knew. In between calls, they waited.
Thirty-seven hours passed. But at some point McFarlane had been seen. To those who saw him, McFarlane would have appeared in his early 70s—a quiet man, inappropriately dressed for the cold day.
Then at around 7 o’clock on Tuesday night, McFarlane was found in Queens. He was trying his house key in strangers’ locks. The police and EMS arrived and noticed the identifying silver medical bracelet on McFarlane’s right wrist.
His memory of those 37 hours is fuzzy. When he left the apartment on Monday morning, he believed he was on his way to his brother’s house on Myrtle Avenue. The police concluded that he had swiped his MetroCard at Christopher Street in Manhattan. He then made his way East to Woodhaven, Queens, where he was found three miles from his home. His stops in between are unknown.
In his home on Wednesday afternoon, he appeared calm and did not remember much about the time he was gone. “I’ve been travelling,” he says.
In his kitchen, he searched in the refrigerator for juice. He had spent a night in the hospital suffering from dehydration, explained his granddaughter Christina Pendergast. There were signs that he had been mugged. She pointed out his swollen lip and said that his cash was taken. He had bruises on his legs but his MetroCard was not taken.
He sat quietly as he waited for his granddaughter to bathe him. His granddaughter said that this was the first time McFarlane had left the house like this and that the family will decide what to do so that it doesn’t happen again while still having him live at home.
McFarlane was ready for his nap. “My bed ain’t wet,” he said. He wanted to climb on in.
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