Alina’s Architectural Thesis, New Renovations, and her time at RMH-NY
When Alina began her graduate thesis in architecture, she brought more than drafting pencils and design models to the table. She carried the weight of her own childhood — years defined by treatment for neuroblastoma, long stays at Memorial Sloan Kettering Hospital (MSK), and a second home at Ronald McDonald House New York (RMH-NY).
Her thesis, The Meadow, examines how architecture can hold both light and shadow at once — a reflection of years of her childhood lived between the hospital and the House.
As she writes in her introduction: “Architecture functions as both a shield and a mirror. It can hold darkness at bay, but it can also reflect it back in ways that make it bearable.”
For Alina, the project wasn’t abstract. It was a way of revisiting the rooms where she grew up, the hallways that carried both anxiety and joy, and the playrooms that made her believe in color and light even during her hardest days in treatment. The Meadow became a window into her memories and a reminder of what compassionate care looks like when architecture, medicine, and community come together.
How Families Balance Treatment, Work, and Life at RMH-NY
Alina’s mother, Maria, remembers the day clearly: December 2004, on Alina’s fourth birthday, when doctors first handed out her diagnosis. Within weeks, the family was on a plane from Florida to New York City, seeking the best possible treatment for Alina at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center (MSK) in NYC.
For Alina’s family, that choice meant dividing their lives in two. Maria moved with Alina to New York, committing herself fully to her daughter’s care. Alina's father, Frank, stayed in Florida to continue working and caring for her older sibling Emery, traveling north for a week at a time whenever they could.
Ronald McDonald House New York became the anchor that made this difficult balance possible. It offered Maria a stable home near MSK, a close place where Alina could rest between treatments, surrounded by a community of families facing similar battles.
Maria recalls the relief she felt knowing the House existed: “It was amazing to know that we could get to the best hospital and have a place to stay. As much fear as there is, it’s one less thing to worry about.”
For families like Alina’s, that kind of family centered care makes survival possible.
Designing Spaces of Light, Play, and Emotional Support
One of the most striking aspects of The Meadow is how Alina explored light. In her models and dioramas, she contrasted dark waiting rooms with vibrant playrooms, showing how architecture itself can carry emotional weight.
She remembered the playroom at Ronald McDonald House New York as her safe haven. “Basically, anyone who worked in the playroom was my favorite,” she said. Whether it was staff members like Ben, Nina, or Mike, or the volunteers who helped with projects, the playroom became a world apart — full of games, art, friends, and laughter.
Her thesis highlighted the therapeutic role of these spaces: “Memory is embedded in space, not only in physical walls but in the rituals and routines that unfold within them. Healing spaces are not neutral; they carry the weight of every life lived inside.”
Every art supply, every safe and colorful room, every evening program is a reminder that healing is holistic. It requires both the brilliance of medicine and the compassion of environments designed for children.
Architecture Reflecting Childhood Cancer Journeys
Alina structured her thesis using a tête-bêche format — a mirrored book that can be read in two directions. It was her way of representing the “two stories in one” reality of childhood cancer: hardship and hope, despair and joy, treatment, and play.
She explained: “The mirrored structure allows for dual readings: the meadow as both real and imagined, the monster as both illness and the memory of illness. The reader must turn the book, just as the patient must turn memory, over and over, to understand.”
This mirrored structure reflected her own experience. She remembered unlimited junk food, Chinese takeout on “Tween Night,” and playing video games with friends.
The duality wasn’t something she imagined later. It was the rhythm of her childhood.
At Ronald McDonald House New York, staff and volunteers live with that same duality every day. They provide emotional support, celebrate milestones, and create joy, all while standing alongside families during the hardest days of their lives. That balance — joy in the face of fear — is what the House makes possible.
Community Support That Extends Beyond Hospital Walls
Alina’s family lived at the House through nearly every renovation between 2005 and 2022. They remember the “flowered 70s curtains” of their first room (Room 407), the heavy drapes that blocked out all the light, and how the design evolved to become more modern and family friendly.
But what stayed constant was community.
Alina recalls weekly programs like karate, movie nights, and teen activities. She sang at Carnegie Hall with other children from the House as part of a fundraiser when she was nine years old. She remembers volunteers like Steve the airline pilot and Ruth, both were there when she was originally diagnosed and still there during Alina’s final stay in the House so many years later.
Her thesis echoes this idea of continuity: “To revisit the meadow is not to return unchanged, but to acknowledge how the space altered me and continues to shape who I am becoming.”
For Maria, the support of other parents at dinner was just as important as the programs. "We were surrounded by other families that knew and understood exactly what we were going through. There was always someone willing to offer a helping hand, a listening ear, or a piece of helpful advice. And we were all so grateful for the community," she said.
This community is what makes RMH-NY unique. It is not only housing but holistic care: emotional support networks, shared meals, and friendships that last a lifetime. The RMH-NY community sustains that network, making sure families are never isolated while navigating treatment.
When Relapse Changes Everything
Five years after her initial diagnosis, Alina relapsed. She and her family were back at Sloan Kettering, back at Ronald McDonald House New York, and back in the whirlwind of intensive treatment.
For Alina, relapse meant reconnecting with friends she had met years earlier.
The House became the steady ground through that chaos. Even when the medical journey became unpredictable, the House provided continuity, compassion, and the sense of being home.
This is why RMH-NY’s model of family centered care is so vital. Medical systems can be overwhelming, but the House wraps families in layers of support that make the difference between surviving and falling apart. And why giving to the House is more than mere generosity — it’s a lifeline for so many families in need.
From Childhood Memories to Architectural Vision
Alina’s thesis was not only an academic project; it was a translation of memory into design. She pulled out old photographs, recreated rooms as dioramas, and even contacted former staff from the playroom for details.
Her models showed chaotic waiting rooms filled with noise and uncertainty, contrasted with dioramas of the playroom that radiated light and joy. Her presentation even included an image of herself and her friend Laura in the House lobby.
What began as childhood memories became an architectural vision: design as healing, architecture as memory.
This is the impact made visible. Support doesn’t end when a family checks out of the House. It lives on in the futures they build — in Alina’s case, quite literally in the buildings she designs and the academic work she contributes to the world.
The Princess and the Pediatric Ward
From The Meadow
By Alina
Once upon a time, in a tall, tower of beeping machines and hushed words, there was a room that didn’t behave.
It smiled when the rest of the building held its breath.
Tucked behind a shimmering wall of glass, past the hush of waiting rooms and the rustle of clipboards, The Meadow waited—not as a destination, but as a discovery. Children found it first. Always the children. They stepped through as if stepping out of weather, and suddenly everything softened.
The lights in The Meadow never buzzed. They glowed—like filtered sun through leaves.
The floor wasn’t a floor but a field: scattered with puppets, puzzles, and paints that bloomed anew each day. Shelves reset themselves like dawn. Laughter replaced the ticking clock.
Time, in this room, forgot how to count.
It wasn’t magic, exactly. But it performed like magic.
Appointments paused. Worry faded into the wallpaper. Even grown-ups, if they stayed long enough, started to speak in stories instead of numbers.
The Meadow didn’t ask questions. It didn’t record symptoms or deliver news. It offered a singular kind of mercy: to forget—just for now—how high the stakes were. Here, the body wasn’t broken, just busy. Here, the battle wasn’t present; only the play.
And while some rooms carried the truth—dimly lit spaces where good intentions met hard limits—The Meadow refused to carry anything heavy. It held only the bright fragments. The stickers. The songs. The sense, however temporary, that the world could be kind.
Its power wasn’t in pretending everything was fine. It was in making the pretending feel real enough to last.
Children believed in The Meadow long after they left it. Some called it the playroom. Some never gave it a name. But all of them remembered the feeling: of being somewhere that didn’t flinch, didn’t hurt, didn’t rush.
And that feeling followed them—not as denial, but as armor.
Because innocence, here, was not ignorance. It was protection, by design. A space where the child was never reduced to patient. Where play was not distraction, but defiance. A clearing in the woods where wonder got to win.
Even now, long after the paints have dried and the puzzles are missing their last pieces, The Meadow remains. Not as a room, but as a memory that glows brighter than the rest.
The world outside may have taught them how to brace for bad news.
But The Meadow taught them how to breathe
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Why Donors Make Health Equity Possible for Families
Alina’s family often reflect on what it would have meant to go through treatment without Ronald McDonald House New York. “I don’t know the outcome,” Maria admitted. “It would have been much harder. I don’t know if it would have been doable.”
For Alina, the difference was life itself. “If I didn’t go to Sloan, I’d probably be dead,” she said plainly. Relapsed neuroblastoma had few survivors in her generation — but Alina is surviving and thriving.
As her thesis reminds us: “Healing spaces are not neutral. They are built from memory, community, and care — and they remain long after the moment of crisis has passed.”
Donor support at RMH-NY makes health equity possible. It ensures that a family from Florida can access care in New York, that international families have housing while seeking treatment, and that every child — regardless of background — has the chance to fight for their life with dignity and support.
This is the heart of compassionate care: breaking down health disparities by making world-class treatment accessible and pairing it with emotional and holistic care that honors the whole family.
Carrying RMH-NY’s Lessons into the Future
Today, Alina lives in Florida and works full-time in the architecture world. Her thesis is printed, bound, and preserved both digitally and physically — a volume that stands as testament to her childhood, her survival, and her vision for the future.
But she hasn’t left RMH-NY behind. On a college trip to New York, she carved out time to stop by the House. “It’s home,” she explained. Even though some of the staff and most of the families have changed, the building itself remains a symbol of stability and belonging.
Her parents feel the same way. Frank calls it “her childhood house,” and Maria still remembers the volunteers and staff who shaped their daily lives.
For the family, Ronald McDonald House New York is more than a memory. It is the foundation that allowed Alina to grow up, go to college, and build a career.
What a beautiful reminder that your gift creates futures.
A Renovation to Reflect Family-Centered Care
Just as Alina translated her childhood experiences into architectural vision, Ronald McDonald House New York is translating the lessons of decades of family-centered care into physical space.
In July 2025, RMH-NY launched a transformative renovation on the second floor of its East 73rd Street House, including dining, kitchen, and program areas—the heart of daily life for families navigating pediatric cancer and other serious illnesses.
These upgrades will create flexible, welcoming spaces where families can bond, rest, and engage in programs that support both children and caregivers.
Designed with Zubatkin Owner Representation, Mitchell Giurgola Architects, and Structure Tone, the renovation introduces a Family & Child Enhancement Zone with early childhood lounges, open play areas, a music zone, and a dedicated homework and tutoring space. Caregivers can remain connected to their children while using quiet workstations, integrating supervision with engagement.
The Dining and Gathering Wing and Family Kitchen will feature ADA-compliant cooking stations and a community donation pantry, allowing families to prepare meals while staying close to their children. The Volunteer Service Kitchen supports daily meal preparation and volunteer engagement, and the Recreation & Play Zone provides music, arts, media, and sensory-rich spaces for child-led and structured programming.
Shelly Friedman, RMH-NY board member and chair of the Building & Facilities Committee, emphasized the purpose behind the design: “Every aspect of this renovation has been thoughtfully designed with families in mind…These upgraded spaces will help foster the sense of community and support that’s at the heart of Ronald McDonald House New York.”
The RMH-NY community makes these improvements possible, ensuring that every child and family continues to experience holistic care, emotional support, and a true home away from home—just as it did for Alina and her family years ago.
Read more about the communal space renovations in process at Ronald McDonald House New York.
How Architecture, Memory, and Donors Keep Families Close
In The Meadow, Alina asked what it means for architecture to carry memory. For her, it meant seeing how light can heal, how playrooms can carry laughter, and how spaces can hold the duality of fear and joy.
For Ronald McDonald House New York, it means something similar: designing programs, spaces, and communities that carry families through the darkest times while giving them moments of light.
RMH-NY donors are the bridge between these two forms of architecture. Your generosity builds the literal rooms and play areas, and it sustains the less visible architecture of compassion, emotional support, and community care.
When you give, you are not only providing a bed or a meal. You are helping create memories that a child may one day transform into a career, a thesis, or a vision for the future — just as Alina did.
Your support keeps families close. And it makes space for healing, in every sense of the word.
Remember: Your gift creates futures.
Support RMH-NY's 2nd floor renovation.
Support more families like Alina's today.
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