From Far to Near: Designing the Academic Cancer Center
By Gina Chang, AIA, EDAC
Principal, CO Architects, Los Angeles
Two million Americans will be diagnosed with cancer this year—about 5,800 people a day. The number keeps climbing, although not because the disease is getting more common: we are living longer, and we are finding it earlier.
The risk of dying has declined by a third since 1991. For most, cancer is becoming something closer to a chronic condition, and people are coming back for years: for surveillance, for maintenance therapy, for survivorship. The disease is also shifting. It still falls hardest on older adults, but colorectal cancer is now the leading cause of cancer death among adults under fifty, with rates climbing 3% a year. Breast cancer is rising in women under 50. Nobody can yet say what is causing younger people to have cancer.
Architects are not solving the cancer crisis. Our clients are, with clinical care, research, and therapies that did not exist when their current buildings opened. What we do as healthcare architects is make our clients’ mission buildable and flexible. We design not just for the technology, which changes faster than any building can, but for the whole person who walks in: their capacity to heal, to sustain a longer fight, and to go on living well with a disease they may carry for years.
Every organization tackles cancer differently. Our job is to listen hard, find their unique approach, and equip them. We think about the design of cancer centers through a journey from far to near, across four scales. Our recently completed work tells this story: Hope Plaza at City of Hope, the Chao Family Comprehensive Cancer Center at University of California, Irvine, the Koman Family Outpatient Pavilion at University of California, San Diego, and other projects along the way.
XL — WHERE IS IT?
We rarely choose the site. We read it.
Every cancer center starts as a strategic decision. A health system identifies a regional need, a gap in access, a population it is not reaching, and it selects a site. We are often not in that room. What we can do is read the selected site—for what it offers, and for what the building might give back.
The Chao Family Comprehensive Cancer Center and Ambulatory Care Center sits on greenfield land at the new UCI Health – Irvine campus, a specialty medical center organized around oncology, neurology, and orthopedics, plus an emergency department so that the facility also serves the local community.
Strategically, UCI Health – Irvine extends the university’s reach into a growing part of Southern California. Physically, it sits at the edge of the San Joaquin Marsh, a natural preserve and wildlife sanctuary threaded with trails that connect back to the academic campus—a connection that matters to clinicians, researchers, and students who move between the two on foot or on a bike, through a wetland.
The Marsh is the muse.
Patients arrive from busy six-lane Jamboree Road, and the approach delivers them a straight-shot view to greenery and water. The intent is that blood pressures begin to drop in the car, and keep lowering as people walk into the building.
Every patient room has a view. An infusion terrace overlooks the marsh, putting the breeze and the changing light into the treatment itself. The flora and fauna shift through the year, and the biodiversity and seasonal variation are what the biophilic research actually measures. The marsh is also an argument for the first all-electric hospital in the nation. When the case for planetary health is sitting outside every window, a building that burns fossil fuel is hard to defend. And the exchange runs both ways, as water from the facility is treated and returned to the marsh, guided by UCI’s biologists.
Opened mid-2024, the UCI Health Chao Family Comprehensive Cancer Center has received positive reviews. Our client, UCI Health, its patients, and the industry celebrate the building, which was recognized by Becker’s Hospital Review as housing one of the nation’s top cancer programs.
Hope Plaza at City of Hope’s suburban Los Angeles site sits in a very different condition, an established campus that has been growing for more than a century, where the new building slots into an existing fabric and connects to its neighbors by bridge. Strategically it is a consolidation—a hub that gathers outpatient services into a single destination, so a patient has one stop.
Hope Plaza sits at the end of the main campus arrival down Hope Drive. Its front yard is the Ted Schwartz Family Hope and Healing Park, a fountain that adds water sounds, and an award-winning parking structure whose kinetic façade ripples and gives visual character to wind. City of Hope has a long tradition of gardens as a way to calm patients and welcome the surrounding community, with events and traditions that keep that culture alive.
The building takes its cue from the oldest gift of the site: the San Gabriel Mountains, and the clean, arid air moving off them that originally made this the site of a tuberculosis sanatorium. The north face is fully glazed, giving the longest views to the longest visits—infusion. The clinic floors get exterior views too, deliberately for staff with long days.
L — WHAT IS IT MADE OF?
Identity in front, flexibility behind.
A cancer center has to be a place with a name. A breast center, a lung center is somewhere a multidisciplinary team sits around a disease, and that place’s name lets a frightened person know they are in the right room.
But designing around named centers can restrict growth, change of use, and full utilization in a field this unpredictable. At UCSD, COO Brendan Kremer described what he wanted as the Disneyland concept: everything the guest sees is curated and particular, everything behind is a machine that can work for any specialty. Identity onstage, flexibility offstage. This conversation led us into our first clinic module study at that level of rigor, and has shaped every cancer center we have designed for the past decade.
Design the module to work for any name on the door.
Every cancer clinic needs roughly the same program pieces: exam, infusion, treatment, and multidisciplinary team space. The Koman Family Outpatient Pavilion at UCSD Health organizes its clinic from front to back—onstage to offstage, which keeps the two flows separate and allows the clinics to expand and contract from side to side based on the day’s needs.
Chao at UCI Health uses a different approach, a two-door exam room. The patient enters from the public corridor, the care team from the back, off a large, shared bullpen with direct access to each room. Physicians, nurses, residents, and students work in one space together without the worry of patients overhearing private clinical conversations. This academic model is less flexible than Koman’s front-to-back arrangement but offers something else—a teaching floor where the whole team, students included, is in one room. That was the priority for UCI Health.
Then organize the models in the way the organization works.
Hope Plaza’s clinics sit on a large floor plate, which is efficient to build and punishing to walk. Dividing the floor into four quadrants around a central elevator core shortened the distance from elevator to exam room—which matters here, for a patient population that overwhelmingly has mobility challenges. Treatment rooms sit between adjacent quadrants, so two specialties can share a bank.
At Koman, the client wanted centers of excellence on a single floor: part clinic, part infusion, part imaging. That is less flexible than an arrangement built to change constantly, and it was the right trade. Placing all these program parts on the same level made each center feel comprehensive with clear identity. They are still built from modules. A tenant can change and keep clinic and infusion side by side, or clinic can be converted to infusion without much trouble, because the rooms are a standard size and the pods are a twelve-room arrangement.
Infusion deserves its own attention, because it is where the change is fastest. Straightforward chemotherapy is moving outward—to community clinics, to unlicensed sites, in some cases to the home. What stays at the academic center is the complexity: cell and gene therapy, theranostics with their shielding requirements, patients immunocompromised enough to need an enclosed room with a dedicated toilet.
That argues against a single floor of identical bays. It argues for a suite with variety built in—open bays, enclosed rooms, rooms with dedicated toilets, rooms with lead lining—arranged so that whatever is not needed for its highest purpose today can absorb overflow from something else. Variety is what makes it flexible.
M — HOW DO YOU MOVE THROUGH IT?
Design the flows, then test them.
Healthcare is defined by movement. In cancer we refer to the patient journey, which starts long before patients enter a building. Within the building, they go through entry, diagnostics, a waiting room, a clinic, and sometimes a longer stay in a patient room or an infusion chair. We must pay a good amount of attention to the paths between these spaces, because often this is where the damage happens: getting lost, getting tired from too many steps, or errors in transport or delivery.
Our approach is, before a plan is fixed, we simulate it with movement. Our in-house-built tools have advanced each project, and now incorporate AI to mimic random human behavior, simulating real usage of the building. We map flows on the plan and run them over and over to see where the problems pop up.
Here we follow three paths.
The patient. Koman is a one-stop shop, which means it holds the whole cancer journey and the paths inside. Follow a woman coming in for breast surgery. She reports to her center’s front door, and the staff take her from there—into treatment for a needle localization, then through back-of-house elevators to surgery, then out a discrete exit for post-surgical discharge. At every one of those transfers, she is handed off in a vulnerable state. When that many people have to touch a patient, the path has to be considered as carefully as the rooms are.
The cells. Chao made a newer demand. In cell and gene therapy, the cells come from the patient, go to the lab to be processed, and are returned to the patient in a different department. That is a chain of custody with a clock on it. Modeling that cell’s route is what argued for keeping it entirely inside the building: fewer handoffs, fewer opportunities for error, less time lost, and quality control that never leaves anyone’s sight. The clean-room labs are embedded in the clinical building, so the cells never leave. Of equal importance, the physician and the researcher are in the same building, treating the same patient, as a person and not a sample.
The staff. At Harbor-UCLA, the staff had a preconceived idea that consolidating many separate buildings into one new outpatient building would mean more walking. As an aging and short-staffed population, it was a reasonable concern.
We had the staff measure their existing steps on their Apple watches and compare it against the modeled distances in the new-building plan. The conversation stopped being about anxiety and became about numbers. Once we proved that the difference in steps was minimal, the conversation focused on how to further reduce steps within the building through strategic placement of supply and med rooms.
What simulation made possible. The simulation method made a truly innovative idea a reality. UCI Health’s surgical director, Mara Rosalsky, wanted inpatient and outpatient surgery combined into one integrated system, not just connected by bridges. This would result in a floorplate of 160,000 square feet (about the size of three football fields) and require a complex orchestra of movement, resulting in a very high-performing surgical department. At that scale, operating rooms and pre-/post-op bays could be grouped in a flexible and efficient way to maximize utilization, particularly of the surgeons. A surgeon is among the scarcest resources in medicine, and a design that would allow surgeons to do inpatient and outpatient procedures in the same day greatly increases their flexibility in scheduling.
Sterile processing gains even more. Instrument sterility is a matter of obvious consequence. A single large, well-stocked department can hold a standard that several small ones cannot.
The same is true of supply. Surgery is urgent work, and in-the-moment waste is a reasonable trade—but it accumulates, and a just-in-time-picking process around a central supply room reduces incredible waste.
Simulated over many iterations and many months of modeled operation, the plan paid off in a number: the operating rooms opened at 76% utilization, measure in the health system’s own EHR records. That is close to ideal—high enough to be efficient, with enough slack left for emergencies and last-minute add-ons. It also started operating profitably immediately, funding the next operational improvement.
S — WHAT DOES IT FEEL LIKE?
Giving choice back
A cancer diagnosis takes away control from a person. They become forced participants, and this layered further with anxiety. At the smaller scale, a space can hand back some choice where it’s noticed, when people take a minute to pause.
At Chao, an infusion patient can stay at her bay, go to the family lounge to be around people, or take her treatment outside on the terrace. That is a real choice, made differently on a hard day than an easy one, and it costs the patient nothing. The building makes choice and variety part of its design.
At Hope Plaza, the choice sits in the garden, in a collection of different spaces—shaded or open, solitary or social, near art or away. Waiting is the largest untreated interval in a cancer patient’s day, and a garden with variety turns that interval into positive distraction. It works on all people. Dr. Stephen Forman, Director of T-Cell Therapeutics at City of Hope, wrote to tell me he often goes there to reflect after a long day.
At the University of Arizona’s Peter and Paula Fasseas Cancer Center, the little things do the work along the journey. Courtyards are spaced between the clinics and are encountered every so often, not as a single destination that requires a decision and a walk. Instead, daylight and greenery arrive repeatedly, giving eyes and minds a break between high-tech spaces. At Chao, the yoga deck at the marsh edge is the same idea at full scale.
Staff need restorative space too, and they seldom ask for it. A person delivering oncology care spends the day absorbing people’s worst news, and there is nowhere in a clinical corridor to rest that. UCI Health has lavender rooms dedicated for Code Lavender, the emergency response to acute staff distress, away from the nurse stations for immediate decompression. Staff-only floors with dedicated terraces allow for outdoor respite where no one is watching. For staff who walk into stressful situations every day with a supportive smile on their face, the case for healing interventions is critical to life itself—the life being saved, and the lives spent saving it.
Built to Outlast the Medicine by Designing for the Humanity
A cancer center takes years to design and build, then stands for decades. The therapies it houses change several times in that lifetime. It’s not an oversight; no one saw CAR-T coming, and no one knows what will come next. Hence, the building must be designed around the things that don’t change: that people arrive frightened, that movement has to preserve dignity, and that someone who works there for decades can still enjoy showing up to work.
A cancer center needs to flex, because the clinical program will.
It has to flow, because the paths determine the patient experience and the staff experience.
It has to heal, because a person fighting cancer draws from many reservoirs to heal—physical, mental, social, spiritual—and needs to access all of them to gather strength to fight a lifelong relationship with cancer. Cancer care is a marathon.
It has to be a place people want to work, because the scarcest thing in oncology is not technology, space, or brilliant ideas, it’s people.
None of that comes from a template. The answer comes from a process—deep listening to an organization’s mission, deep understanding of what the site has to offer, then testing the answer until it is solid enough to build. Every institution attacks cancer differently. Our job is to find out how, and build the space that makes it happen for years to come.
Author
Gina Chang, AIA, EDAC, Healthcare Architect
Gina Chang is a healthcare principal at Los Angeles-based CO Architects who has successfully led large teams through ambitious project goals. With more than 20 years of experience, Gina understands the complex and unique nature of healthcare projects. She is an advocate for evidence-based design and sees each project as an opportunity to create an environment for healing and wellness. Gina joined CO Architects in 2007 as a medical planner and project coordinator for Palomar Medical Center. She has since held key leadership roles on major healthcare projects, including UCI Health – Irvine and City of Hope’s Hope Plaza. Gina holds a Bachelor of Arts in Architecture from the University of California, Berkeley, and is EDAC certified.
Images
01-Cancer Care Trends

UCI Health – Irvine view from the San Joaquin Marsh. Photo: Tom Bonner, Courtesy CO Architects
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UCI Health – Irvine Chao Family Comprehensive Cancer Care Center’s infusion family lounge and Clemons Family terrace. Photo: Tom Bonner, Courtesy CO Architects
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UCI Health – Irvine AI-optimized circulation modeling. Courtesy CO Architects
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City of Hope’s Hope Plaza kinetic-façade parking garage and outpatient building. Photo: Tom Bonner, Courtesy CO Architects
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City of Hope’s Ted Schwartz Family Hope and Healing Park at Hope Plaza. Photo: Tom Bonner, Courtesy CO Architects
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Hope Plaza infusion with San Gabriel Mountains view. Photo: Halkin Mason
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UCSD Koman Family Outpatient Pavilion’s modular floor plan design. Photo: Tom Bonner, Courtesy CO Architects

























