What it's like to get treated for cancer at the Cook County Hospital
This post is something I've been mulling over for months. In the past, other commitments and deadlines got in the way, but since I am pretty light on both at the moment, I figured I might as well try to actually write it.
---
When I started getting treatment for Hodgekins Lymphoma, many people told me something along the lines of "Oh my God, you're getting chemo at Cook County? Are you going to be okay?"
I didn't begrudge them for that, because they meant well, and they were honestly worried about me. But it does go to the heart of what most people think public hospitals are - overcrowded spaces full of drug addicts and smelly homeless people, places with crappy service and not enough of, well, anything. And that's something I wanted to address.
Cook County Hospital is a hospital of last resort. Make no mistake about it. The moment you step inside, it is assumed that you are not going to be able to pay, and the receptionists give you instruction for how to apply for CountyCare - the Cook County Medicaid-style program that has higher income limits than Illinois Medicaid - and other forms of financial aid. There are programs for immigrants - legal or otherwise There are programs for the homeless.
I know for a fact that at least one person who got chemo around the same time as me was homeless. Everyone once in a while, I saw men in Cook County Jail jumpsuits being escorted in for treatment. But honestly, that didn't matter. Because in the end of the day, we were all patients. We were all scared. We tried to brace ourselves for what was to come.
One of the other patients was a middle-aged Egyptian woman. She barely spoke any English, but from what I understood, I reminded her of her son. Every time our treatment cycles intersected, she'd give me candy and a little money. Which I wasn't sure how to feel about, but I couldn't complain.
The infusion room, where I got chemo, wasn't cutting-edge, but it was clean and well-lit, with comfortable chairs that could turn into beds. Each seat has an entertainment center connected to local TV channels. I preferred to read books, but a lot of other patients tuned in to local channels and watched talk shows and soap operas.
We had different cancers and different treatment cycles. Many patients could barely speak any English. But we were in this together. We offered advice to new arrivals, encouraged the ones who complained and cheered for those who were getting their last chemo.
Our doctors, nurses and other staff juggled a lot of plates. The hospital is always busy, especially the emergency room. Honestly, I'm kind of shocked that the doctors and nurses remembered any names - but they did.
Waiting, I quickly learned, is an inevitable part of Cook County Hospital experience. Appointment times are, at best, polite suggestions, rough approximations that exist primarily to determine your place in line. If you have a 9:00 AM check-up appointment, you can expect the doctor to see you at 11:00 AM at best. But if you come in more than ten minutes after appointment time, you are going to wait even longer, because the receptionists assume that you're not coming and slot someone else in your place in line.
And yet... here's the thing. Even if you have to wait a while, the doctors will see you that same day, before their shift ends. And if something unexpected comes up, the doctors will scramble to get you an appointment. Once, I developed what turned out to be an infection on the side of my chest. My regular doctor wasn't in, but one of the other doctors (Let's call her Dr K) scrambled to get me an appointment with a skin cancer specialist who took the sample - all in under two hours.
Speaking of which... I quickly discovered that much of the Cook County Hospital system operates on favors between doctors. The "you help my patients and I help yours" sort of give-and-take. It's how, back before my cancer was probably diagnosed, I managed to get a biopsy a week earlier than originally planned.
Make no mistake - Cook County Hospital doctors care about their patients, going above and beyond the call of duty. When my regular doctor, Dr A, found out that I didn't have a flu shot, she had a nurse give me one. When the chest infection thing came up, Dr K me on antibiotics even before the samples came back, simply because she didn't want to take the risk that an infection goes untreated.
When my mom and I went to an event Cook County Hospital held for cancer patients and survivors, Dr K went up to my mom and personally reassured her that it was just an infection, and I was fine.
And, of course, I would be remiss not to mention the nurses. They were the ones who handled a lot of nitty-gritty stuff, the shots and chemo infusions. I didn't have the same nurse for all my chemo treatments, but the ones that handled most of them was a nurse named Adrienne.
She always tried her best to get my name correct. When injecting chemo chemicals, she tried to stick it in the same arm and in a similar place, to avoid hurting me any more than I had to.
The first time I threw up during chemo, Adrienne thought that one of the pills I took to counter chemo side-effects were responsible. My doctor gave me a choice - to keep taking the pills or have the medicine administrated through an IV. I said I wanted to see what would happen next time, but Adrinne decided not to take any chances, and made the decision to switch me to an IV.
If you followed my chemo diaries posts, you'll know that it didn't work. Adrienne couldn't do anything else, but, from that point on, she always made sure that there was a bag I could throw up in within my arm's reach.
And then there are receptionists - the unsung heroes of the hospital system. They were the ones who had to make sure everyone was checked in and had their wristbends. They had to make sure everybody had their paperwork in and help patients who didn't. Which wasn't easy when many patients barely spoke English. Nurses could call translators for help, but receptionists.. not so much.
One receptionist made it her mission to pronounce my full name correctly. Not just my first name - my last name too. It tends to trip up Americans, but she sure gave it a good try.
After my last chemo session ended, I came up to the infusion center's desk. Normally, this would be the part where I asked for the paperwork for the next session, but on that day, I proudly said that I was done.
But that wasn't the main reason why I came up to the desk.
"You know, you tried so hard to pronounce my name, and I never even learned yours," I said.
"Martha," she said, her voice wavering very slightly. "My name is Martha."
"Thank you, Martha," I replied. "For everything."
A week later, I got Adrienne a small Christmas present. And I promised to myself that, come next year, I would get a box of candies for all the receptionists at the infusion center.
That is not to say that everything alwasy ran smoothly. During one chemo session, one of the other patients, an African-American woman, was going off about... I don't even remember what anymore. Something about something white people did.
Adrienne, who is black, tried to hush her.
"We're in mixed company!"
I wanted to say that I've heard worse while exploring the black sections of Chicago's South Side, but Adrienne glared at me before the words could come up of my mouth.
"Oh, don't you start," she said.
"I'm not saying anything," I shrugged - or as much as I could shrug with an IV in my right arm.
The other incident was a bit more serious. I was waiting for a check-up when two patients - a white man and black woman - started arguing. The woman said that the man was looking at her funny. The man insisted that he did nothing, but he wasn't going to sit there and be insulted. The entire waiting area cringed as the argument got louder and louder...
... But before it could escalate, one receptionist lead the man away, while another sat with the woman and the third called security.
"He started it!" the woman said.
"Okay," said the receptionist, her tone at once gentle and stern. "I'm going to need you to count to 10, okay? Can you do that?"
"He started it..."
"I know, but I'm going to need you to calm down. Can you do it for me?"
From the tone of her voice, it was clear that the receptionist has done this sort of thing many times before.
(Did I mention that the receptionists are unsung heroes of Cook County Hospital?)
I've never been treated in a private hospital in United States. I don't know if some of the things I talked about are the same across the board. But I think it is important for people to know that public hospitals like Cook County Hospitals are not some god-forsaken hellholes. That it's full of good people who legitimately try to take care of their patients. That thousands of people across Chicagoland are better off because of it.
And besides, as I previously pointed out on Facebook, Cook County Hospital and other medical facilities account for the biggest share of the state's budget. One way or another, anyone who lives in Cook County paid for my care, just as they continue to pay for care of thousands of other people.
They should know that their money is spent on something worthwhile.
---
When I started getting treatment for Hodgekins Lymphoma, many people told me something along the lines of "Oh my God, you're getting chemo at Cook County? Are you going to be okay?"
I didn't begrudge them for that, because they meant well, and they were honestly worried about me. But it does go to the heart of what most people think public hospitals are - overcrowded spaces full of drug addicts and smelly homeless people, places with crappy service and not enough of, well, anything. And that's something I wanted to address.
Cook County Hospital is a hospital of last resort. Make no mistake about it. The moment you step inside, it is assumed that you are not going to be able to pay, and the receptionists give you instruction for how to apply for CountyCare - the Cook County Medicaid-style program that has higher income limits than Illinois Medicaid - and other forms of financial aid. There are programs for immigrants - legal or otherwise There are programs for the homeless.
I know for a fact that at least one person who got chemo around the same time as me was homeless. Everyone once in a while, I saw men in Cook County Jail jumpsuits being escorted in for treatment. But honestly, that didn't matter. Because in the end of the day, we were all patients. We were all scared. We tried to brace ourselves for what was to come.
One of the other patients was a middle-aged Egyptian woman. She barely spoke any English, but from what I understood, I reminded her of her son. Every time our treatment cycles intersected, she'd give me candy and a little money. Which I wasn't sure how to feel about, but I couldn't complain.
The infusion room, where I got chemo, wasn't cutting-edge, but it was clean and well-lit, with comfortable chairs that could turn into beds. Each seat has an entertainment center connected to local TV channels. I preferred to read books, but a lot of other patients tuned in to local channels and watched talk shows and soap operas.
We had different cancers and different treatment cycles. Many patients could barely speak any English. But we were in this together. We offered advice to new arrivals, encouraged the ones who complained and cheered for those who were getting their last chemo.
Our doctors, nurses and other staff juggled a lot of plates. The hospital is always busy, especially the emergency room. Honestly, I'm kind of shocked that the doctors and nurses remembered any names - but they did.
Waiting, I quickly learned, is an inevitable part of Cook County Hospital experience. Appointment times are, at best, polite suggestions, rough approximations that exist primarily to determine your place in line. If you have a 9:00 AM check-up appointment, you can expect the doctor to see you at 11:00 AM at best. But if you come in more than ten minutes after appointment time, you are going to wait even longer, because the receptionists assume that you're not coming and slot someone else in your place in line.
And yet... here's the thing. Even if you have to wait a while, the doctors will see you that same day, before their shift ends. And if something unexpected comes up, the doctors will scramble to get you an appointment. Once, I developed what turned out to be an infection on the side of my chest. My regular doctor wasn't in, but one of the other doctors (Let's call her Dr K) scrambled to get me an appointment with a skin cancer specialist who took the sample - all in under two hours.
Speaking of which... I quickly discovered that much of the Cook County Hospital system operates on favors between doctors. The "you help my patients and I help yours" sort of give-and-take. It's how, back before my cancer was probably diagnosed, I managed to get a biopsy a week earlier than originally planned.
Make no mistake - Cook County Hospital doctors care about their patients, going above and beyond the call of duty. When my regular doctor, Dr A, found out that I didn't have a flu shot, she had a nurse give me one. When the chest infection thing came up, Dr K me on antibiotics even before the samples came back, simply because she didn't want to take the risk that an infection goes untreated.
When my mom and I went to an event Cook County Hospital held for cancer patients and survivors, Dr K went up to my mom and personally reassured her that it was just an infection, and I was fine.
And, of course, I would be remiss not to mention the nurses. They were the ones who handled a lot of nitty-gritty stuff, the shots and chemo infusions. I didn't have the same nurse for all my chemo treatments, but the ones that handled most of them was a nurse named Adrienne.
She always tried her best to get my name correct. When injecting chemo chemicals, she tried to stick it in the same arm and in a similar place, to avoid hurting me any more than I had to.
The first time I threw up during chemo, Adrienne thought that one of the pills I took to counter chemo side-effects were responsible. My doctor gave me a choice - to keep taking the pills or have the medicine administrated through an IV. I said I wanted to see what would happen next time, but Adrinne decided not to take any chances, and made the decision to switch me to an IV.
If you followed my chemo diaries posts, you'll know that it didn't work. Adrienne couldn't do anything else, but, from that point on, she always made sure that there was a bag I could throw up in within my arm's reach.
And then there are receptionists - the unsung heroes of the hospital system. They were the ones who had to make sure everyone was checked in and had their wristbends. They had to make sure everybody had their paperwork in and help patients who didn't. Which wasn't easy when many patients barely spoke English. Nurses could call translators for help, but receptionists.. not so much.
One receptionist made it her mission to pronounce my full name correctly. Not just my first name - my last name too. It tends to trip up Americans, but she sure gave it a good try.
After my last chemo session ended, I came up to the infusion center's desk. Normally, this would be the part where I asked for the paperwork for the next session, but on that day, I proudly said that I was done.
But that wasn't the main reason why I came up to the desk.
"You know, you tried so hard to pronounce my name, and I never even learned yours," I said.
"Martha," she said, her voice wavering very slightly. "My name is Martha."
"Thank you, Martha," I replied. "For everything."
A week later, I got Adrienne a small Christmas present. And I promised to myself that, come next year, I would get a box of candies for all the receptionists at the infusion center.
That is not to say that everything alwasy ran smoothly. During one chemo session, one of the other patients, an African-American woman, was going off about... I don't even remember what anymore. Something about something white people did.
Adrienne, who is black, tried to hush her.
"We're in mixed company!"
I wanted to say that I've heard worse while exploring the black sections of Chicago's South Side, but Adrienne glared at me before the words could come up of my mouth.
"Oh, don't you start," she said.
"I'm not saying anything," I shrugged - or as much as I could shrug with an IV in my right arm.
The other incident was a bit more serious. I was waiting for a check-up when two patients - a white man and black woman - started arguing. The woman said that the man was looking at her funny. The man insisted that he did nothing, but he wasn't going to sit there and be insulted. The entire waiting area cringed as the argument got louder and louder...
... But before it could escalate, one receptionist lead the man away, while another sat with the woman and the third called security.
"He started it!" the woman said.
"Okay," said the receptionist, her tone at once gentle and stern. "I'm going to need you to count to 10, okay? Can you do that?"
"He started it..."
"I know, but I'm going to need you to calm down. Can you do it for me?"
From the tone of her voice, it was clear that the receptionist has done this sort of thing many times before.
(Did I mention that the receptionists are unsung heroes of Cook County Hospital?)
I've never been treated in a private hospital in United States. I don't know if some of the things I talked about are the same across the board. But I think it is important for people to know that public hospitals like Cook County Hospitals are not some god-forsaken hellholes. That it's full of good people who legitimately try to take care of their patients. That thousands of people across Chicagoland are better off because of it.
And besides, as I previously pointed out on Facebook, Cook County Hospital and other medical facilities account for the biggest share of the state's budget. One way or another, anyone who lives in Cook County paid for my care, just as they continue to pay for care of thousands of other people.
They should know that their money is spent on something worthwhile.