“Do you have any Advil with you?” a tech asked me. I was having a port installed.

Prior to cancer treatment, my husband thought a port was a place to park a very big boat.

I thought it was a delightful beverage to enjoy in moderation after a special dinner. In Northern California, where I lived, communities are surrounded by grapes that produce that strong syrupy treat.

But I was having a different kind of port that day, and in a way, it was a treat, too.

That day’s port was a little device planted under the surface of my skin that would allow medical professionals to inject me with the life-saving fluids I’d need over the course of my chemotherapy treatment. Those fluids would go through my port so my delicate veins wouldn’t have to be poked with needles every time I needed meds. Whoever came up with that idea was a genius.

The guy who installed my port looked like a construction worker in scrubs. “I actually used to be a contractor,” he told me. “Then I switched careers.”