I snapped this picture on the grounds of the Cancer Treatment Center of America in Zion, IL. That's the real picture - no filter, no editing. If it looks like I was walking around in a storybook, well, I was.
My best friend Cyndi has been battling Stage 4 Metastatic Breast Cancer for more than two years now. From the minute she first visited CTCA, she knew it was the place she wanted to doctor. It seemed like a daunting task to me, traveling 6+ hours for treatments. She had often explained why it was so important for her to go there, but I didn't really understand what she meant until I got there and saw it for myself. This place - it is so different from any hospital, doctor's office, or treatment center that I've ever seen. It left a profound impression on me, and I just had to write about the experience.
CTCA's purpose may lie in treating cancer, but they have never forgotten that each person walking through their doors is more than just a diagnosis. There is a quiet peacefulness that blankets the campus and permeates every wall of every building. The C word is a terrifying set of letters. I was expecting to walk around feeling sadness for all the people that I saw, knowing they are each dealing with that diagnosis on some level. Surprisingly, anxiety and sadness couldn't have been further from my mind.
An appointment at CTCA is only partly about your cancer; yes, you have labs and tests and scans and chemo - all the things you would have at any other hospital. But they believe in treating the whole person, and using every weapon known in the world's arsenal. So in addition to the medical personnel who are making informed decisions about your treatment plan, they ALSO schedule you to see a Naturopath, a Nutritionist, a Massage Therapist, and a Counselor, just to name a few.
They know that your chemo is giving you side effects, and they want to minimize them if they can, so they'll provide meds or acupuncture or massage or whatever it will take to help improve the quality of your days.
They know that your life has been Interrupted in a Big Bad Way, and they know you're going to need someone to talk to about that. So here's someone to talk to who hears you, and listens, and knows how to help you develop some coping mechanisms for the giant Detour you've been given.
They know that your feet are going to hurt, so here's a shuttle every time you have to move the block and a half to the hotel.
They know it's hard to remember all the appointments and details, so here's a printout at the door and a quick scan of your wristband will tell every person at every desk where you need to be at any given moment.
They know you have to eat your meals in their facility, so here's about a hundred options made to order and you can eat them in a dining room that feels more like a restaurant.
They know that the best way to remind yourself that you're still alive is to be surrounded by growing things, so every single piece of artwork is something living - flowers and plants and trees and lakes and insects. The atrium is Peace Personified - it's warm and lush and filled with the earthy smell of living plant life. The grounds are storybook material and every single employee is a Disney Princess in training. (A little hyperbole there, but honestly, these are the happiest, friendliest, most helpful human beings I have ever met collectively in one place.) If any of them are having a bad day, you would never know it.
These are just the generalities; you wouldn't believe how exciting it gets when something doesn't go according to plan. You would think that such a lovely, structured place would get a little crazy if something goes wrong. But then again, cancer is unpredictable, and maybe that's why they're so good at taking detours and making it seem like it's the easiest, least stressful adventure they've had this week.
For example, they know that if you're unexpectedly dehydrated and your port can't be accessed on time, you will need a plan B for chemo. They will have plan B up and running in less than thirty minutes. They will understand that because your chemo will now run 4.5 hours instead of 1.5, you are going to need to be comfortable. You and your friend are going to need a private infusion bay with recliners and blankets from the warmer. You will need a couple of good movies to watch, and since this is now going to run over the lunch hour, you will maybe want food delivered to the bay you're receiving treatment in. They figure you want something good, so here's a menu of thirty customizable options - it's for you and your caregiver, by the way - and they're gonna deliver it right to the bay so you guys can basically be having a catered movie afternoon to take your mind off the fact that you need a couple of bags of extra fluid, some meds for the port, and a lengthier chemo infusion.
Meanwhile, they'll check in every twenty minutes and offer to bring you more blankets and something to drink...it's kind of like having a personal attendant who only cares about how good you feel and how happy you are.
I wouldn't wish cancer on my worst enemy. The fact that my friend, my person, my gentle, funny, thoughtful, witty, wonderful human has to manage it actually pisses me off. I still get this wave of simmering rage that bubbles up from time to time when I think about it. I want every day to fix it. I pray every day that some miracle is going to take all of it away and she doesn't have to manage all the things I know she's managing. In the meantime, though, I am supremely grateful for CTCA, because I know that at least she's getting the BEST that there is. It was the highlight of my year so far. There's something really comforting knowing that places like this exist in the world, especially when the world is a tough place to live in already. 💓
