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Rio has a brilliant plan for what to do with its Olympic arenas after closing ceremonies.

From schools to public parks to swimming centers, Olympic venues will live on.

Rio has a brilliant plan for what to do with its Olympic arenas after closing ceremonies.

For 16 spectacular days in August 2016, Rio de Janeiro played host to the world's greatest athletes.

Although Rio was not without its many controversies in the lead-up to the games, things seem to have gone fairly smoothly for the Olympic host city during the event itself. Sure, the attendance hasn't been so great, and Olympic swimmer Ryan Lochte may or may not (OK, almost certainly not) have been robbed at gunpoint.

In the end, it turned out OK. Lots of great stories emerged from the games, such as Olympic firsts for Fiji and Kosovo, a beautiful display of sportsmanship, the dominance of the U.S. women's gymnastics team, a woman who helped send an Olympic dad to Rio, the joy of victory, and so much more.


The opening ceremony of the Rio 2016 Olympic Games. Photo by Pedro Ugarte/AFP/Getty Images.

But with the Olympics coming to an end, one big question remains: What will happen to all the facilities built for the games?

In 2009, when Rio de Janeiro beat out Chicago, Madrid, and Tokyo for hosting rights to the 2016 games, it estimated total costs directly related to the Olympics would be roughly $3 billion. As of the opening ceremonies, the actual cost exceeded that estimate by more than 50%, racking up $4.6 billion.

Overruns are common for Olympic host cities, but there's another problem: Most cities don't have an especially great track record of using stadiums and other Olympic-specific structures after the festivities have ended.

In 2004, Athens hosted the Olympics at a price of nearly $15 billion. During the games, things looked great. But after the games? Not so much.

The opening ceremony at the Athens Olympic Games in 2004. Photo by Jean-Philippe Ksiazek//AFP/Getty Images.

Years later, the once-beautiful Olympic grounds have been largely abandoned, and the country fell into a severe depression.

The neglected Athens Olympic grounds in 2012. Photo by Oli Scarff/Getty Images.

Similarly, Beijing, host of the 2008 Olympics, failed to find a post-games use for certain venues. The Beijing BMX track, baseball fields, and its rowing and kayaking centers have all gone largely ignored in the eight years after the Olympics.

Hoping to avoid a repeat of Athens, Olympics organizers have big plans for the Rio facilities after the flame goes out.

During the games, the 12,000-seat Arena of the Future played host to the world's top handball players. After the Paralympics are finished with it (the location will serve as the venue for goalball), it will be broken down and rebuilt as classrooms that will house up to 2,000 students.

The Future Arena in Rio de Janeiro. Photo by Lars Baron/Getty Images.

Similarly, the Aquatics Stadium will be disassembled and rebuilt as two separate public sports centers complete with their own Olympic-sized swimming pools.

The Olympic Aquatics Stadium. Photo by Buda Mendes/Getty Images.

“These are the Games of transformation that will transform the city and leave a legacy, such as mobility,” Municipal Olympic Company President Joaquim Monteiro said in a statement. "We're not preparing Rio for the Games, we are transforming the city of Rio.”

Wired reports that everything from the broadcast center's steel frame to the Olympic Tennis Center to the souvenir shop will be repurposed into various post-Olympic facilities to benefit Rio in years to come. Additionally, engineering firm Aecom plans to transform the Olympic grounds into public parks.

The Olympic park in July. Photo by Vanderlei Almeida/AFP/Getty Images.

Great news, right? Sounds like hosting the Olympics is a pretty solid investment in your own city, right?

Absolutely not.

It is pretty much universally understood that the Olympics are a bad investment. Building Olympic facilities usually means displacing low-income residents, and it tends to wreak havoc on a city's existing infrastructure. If your neighbor says, "Hey, wouldn't it be cool if the Olympics were held here?" the correct answer is probably, "No, Brian, that would not be cool. In fact, it would be the opposite of cool."

But since the Olympics must happen somewhere, it's good to see Rio looking for smart long-term uses for these short-term facilities.

The delegations parade during the opening ceremony. Photo by Gabriel Bouys/AFP/Getty Images.

via ABC and Bee Gees / YouTube

A year ago a woman in Pearland, Texas helped save her husband's life because of her quick thinking and the sweet, four-on-the-floor disco beat of the Bee Gees.

After finishing a two-mile run with her husband Quan, Ganesa Collins watched him fall to the ground. "We sat on the bench, and he was in front of me," Collins told ABC. "I was standing behind and stretching, and he just went face forward. His head hit the dirt."

She quickly called 911 and the operator said he was having a heart attack.

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via ABC and Bee Gees / YouTube

A year ago a woman in Pearland, Texas helped save her husband's life because of her quick thinking and the sweet, four-on-the-floor disco beat of the Bee Gees.

After finishing a two-mile run with her husband Quan, Ganesa Collins watched him fall to the ground. "We sat on the bench, and he was in front of me," Collins told ABC. "I was standing behind and stretching, and he just went face forward. His head hit the dirt."

She quickly called 911 and the operator said he was having a heart attack.

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True

Each year, an estimated 1.8 million people in the United States are affected by cancer — most commonly cancers of the breast, lung, prostate, and blood cancers such as leukemia. While not everyone overcomes the disease, thanks to science, more people are surviving — and for longer — than ever before in history.

We asked three people whose lives have been impacted by cancer to share their stories – how their lives were changed by the disease, and how they're using that experience to change the future of cancer treatments with the hope that ultimately, in the fight against cancer, science will win. Here's what they had to say.

Celine Ryan, 55, engineer database programmer and mother of five from Detroit, MI

Photo courtesy of Celine Ryan

In September 2013, Celine Ryan woke up from a colonoscopy to some traumatic news. Her gastroenterologist showed her a picture of the cancerous mass they found during the procedure.

Ryan and her husband, Patrick, had scheduled a colonoscopy after discovering some unusual bleeding, so the suspicion she could have cancer was already there. Neither of them, however, were quite prepared for the results to be positive -- or for the treatment to begin so soon. Just two days after learning the news, Ryan had surgery to remove the tumor, part of her bladder, and 17 cancerous lymph nodes. Chemotherapy and radiation soon followed.

Ryan's treatment was rigorous – but in December 2014, she got the devastating news that the cancer, once confined to her colon, had spread to her lungs. Her prognosis, they said, was likely terminal.

But rather than give up hope, Ryan sought support from online research, fellow cancer patients and survivors, and her medical team. When she brought up immunotherapy to her oncologist, he quickly agreed it was the best course of action. Ryan's cancer, like a majority of colon and pancreatic cancers, had been caused by a defect on the gene KRAS, which can result in a very aggressive cancer that is virtually "undruggable." According to the medical literature, the relatively smooth protein structure of the KRAS gene meant that designing inhibitors to bind to surface grooves and treat the cancer has been historically difficult. Through her support systems, Ryan discovered an experimental immunotherapy trial at the National Institutes of Health (NIH) in Bethesda, MD., and called them immediately to see if she was eligible. After months of trying to determine whether she was a suitable candidate for the experimental treatment, Ryan was finally accepted.

The treatment, known as tumor-infiltrating lymphocyte therapy, or TIL, is a testament to how far modern science has evolved. With this therapy, doctors remove a tumor and harvest special immune cells that are found naturally in the tumor. Doctors then grow the cells in a lab over the next several weeks with a protein that promotes rapid TIL growth – and once the cells number into the billions, they are infused back into the patient's body to fight the cancer. On April 1, 2015, Ryan had her tumor removed at the NIH. Two months later, she went inpatient for four weeks to have the team "wash out" her immune system with chemotherapy and infuse the cells – all 148 billion of them – back into her body.

Six weeks after the infusion, Ryan and Patrick went back for a follow-up appointment – and the news they got was stunning: Not only had no new tumors developed, but the six existing tumors in her lungs had shrunk significantly. Less than a year after her cell infusion, in April 2016, the doctors told Ryan news that would have been impossible just a decade earlier: Thanks to the cell infusion, Ryan was now considered NED – no evaluable disease. Her body was cancer-free.

Ryan is still NED today and continuing annual follow-up appointments at the NIH, experiencing things she never dreamed she'd be able to live to see, such as her children's high school and college graduations. She's also donating her blood and cells to the NIH to help them research other potential cancer treatments. "It was an honor to do so," Ryan said of her experience. "I'm just thrilled, and I hope my experience can help a lot more people."

Patrice Lee, PhD, VP of Pharmacology, Toxicology and Exploratory Development at Pfizer

Photo courtesy of Patrice Lee

Patrice Lee got into scientific research in an unconventional way – through the late ocean explorer Jacques Cousteau.

Lee never met Cousteau but her dreams of working with him one day led her to pursue a career in science. Initially, Lee completed an undergraduate degree in marine biology; eventually, her interests changed and she decided to get a dual doctoral degree in physiology and toxicology at Duke University. She now works at Pfizer's R&D site in Boulder, CO (formerly Array BioPharma), leading a group of scientists who determine the safety and efficacy of new oncology drugs.

"Scientists focused on drug discovery and development in the pharmaceutical industry are deeply committed to inventing new therapies to meet unmet needs," Lee says, describing her field of work. "We're driven to achieve new medicines and vaccines as quickly as possible without sacrificing safety."

Among the drugs Lee has helped develop during her career, including cancer therapies, she says around a dozen are currently in development, while nine have received FDA approval — an incredible accomplishment as many scientists spend their careers without seeing their drug make it to market. Lee's team is particularly interested in therapies for brain metastases — something that Lee says is a largely unmet need in cancer research, and something her team is working on from a variety of angles. "Now that we've had rapid success with mRNA vaccine technology, we hope to explore what the future holds when applying this technology to cancers," Lee says.

But while evaluating potential cancer therapies is a professional passion of Lee's, it's also a mission that's deeply personal. "I'm also a breast cancer survivor," she says. "So I've been on the other side of things and have participated in a clinical trial."

However, seeing how melanoma therapies that she helped develop have affected other real-life cancer patients, she says, has been a highlight of her career. "We had one therapy that was approved for patients with BRAF-mutant metastatic melanoma," Lee recalls. "Our team in Boulder was graced by a visit from a patient that had benefited from these drugs that we developed. It was a very special moment for the entire team."

None of these therapies would be available, Lee says without rigorous science behind it: "Facts come from good science. Facts will drive the development of new drugs, and that's what will help patients."

Chiuying "Cynthia" Kuk (they/them) MS, 34, third-year medical student at Michigan State University College of Human Medicine

Photo courtesy of Cynthia Kuk

Cynthia Kuk was just 10 years old when they had a conversation that would change their life forever.

"My mother, who worked as a translator for the government at the time, had been diagnosed with breast cancer, and after her chemotherapy treatments she would get really sick," Kuk, who uses they/them pronouns, recalls. "When I asked my dad why mom was puking so much, he said it was because of the medicine she was taking that would help her get better."

Kuk's response was immediate: "That's so stupid! Why would a medicine make you feel worse instead of better? When I'm older, I want to create medicine that won't make people sick like that."

Nine years later, Kuk traveled from their native Hong Kong to the United States to do exactly that. Kuk enrolled in a small, liberal arts college for their Bachelor's degree, and then four years later started a PhD program in cancer research. Although Kuk's mother was in remission from her cancer at the time, Kuk's goal was the same as it had been as a 10-year-old watching her suffer through chemotherapy: to design a better cancer treatment, and change the landscape of cancer research forever.

Since then, Kuk's mission has changed slightly.

"My mom's cancer relapsed in 2008, and she ended up passing away about five years after that," Kuk says. "After my mom died, I started having this sense of urgency. Cancer research is such that you work for twenty years, and at the end of it you might have a fancy medication that could help people, but I wanted to help people now." With their mother still at the forefront of their mind, Kuk decided to quit their PhD program and enter medical school.

Now, Kuk plans to pursue a career in emergency medicine – not only because they are drawn to the excitement of the emergency room, but because the ER is a place where the most marginalized people tend to seek care.

"I have a special interest in the LGBTQ+ population, as I identify as queer and nonbinary," says Kuk. "A lot of people in this community and other marginalized communities access care through the ER and also tend to avoid medical care since there is a history of mistreatment and judgement from healthcare workers. How you carry yourself as a doctor, your compassion, that can make a huge difference in someone's care."

In addition to making a difference in the lives of LGBTQ+ patients, Kuk wants to make a difference in the lives of patients with cancer as well, like their mother had.

"We've diagnosed patients in the Emergency Department with cancer before," Kuk says. "I can't make cancer good news but how you deliver bad news and the compassion you show could make a world of difference to that patient and their family."

During their training, Kuk advocates for patients by delivering compassionate and inclusive care, whether they happen to have cancer or not. In addition to emphasizing their patient's pronouns and chosen names, they ask for inclusive social and sexual histories as well as using gender neutral language. In doing this, they hope to make medicine as a whole more accessible for people who have been historically pushed aside.

"I'm just one person, and I can't force everyone to respect you, if you're marginalized," Kuk says. "But I do want to push for a culture where people appreciate others who are different from them."