The word “port” has multiple definitions, ranging from a rich, fortified wine, to the left side of a ship, to a town or city where ships load and unload cargo. Cleveland, Ohio, has a port. So does Portland, Oregon, despite being 90 miles inland. During a storm, ships seek a port – preferably a safe one – and are willing to settle for the proverbial “any port” in which to ride out the bad weather.

“Port” can also mean an access to a system. In my case, my (relatively) new port provides access to my cardiovascular system.

In mid-December, I finally bowed to the inevitable and had a port put in. My veins had hit the wall. Since September, they had been subjected to the Kyprolis ^[1] (carfilzomib) regimen of two consecutive days of infusion for three consecutive weeks each month. Then there were the various draws for major labs as well as the weekly draws to check the effects of the treatment on my blood counts.

As the fall and Kyprolis treatment progressed, my veins grew increasingly fragile. They were scarred from repeated sticks. Bruising was the norm and venous blowouts became common. Two tries to get an IV line started to become the routine, and on bad days it took three.

That was when I threw in the towel and scheduled the necessary surgery.

Surgery was swift. I warned the surgeon beforehand that I bruised extensively, and he reassured me that everyone bruised some. Afterwards, he came back around and said, somewhat abashed, “you weren’t kidding about the bruising.” The bruises were indeed spectacular, rivaling the finest makeup artistry of Hollywood.

Four days later, I had my first infusion through the port. I haven’t looked back.

I am of two minds about the port.

On the one hand, I feel it is a retreat, one that couldn’t be stopped, but a retreat nonetheless. That small lump under my skin is a visible reminder of the constant grind of treatment and myeloma on my body. Doctor/​author Atul Gawande’s trenchant observation about incurable, terminal cancer comes to mind: even when one is doing well, the night brigade is always out there bringing down the perimeter defenses.

On the other hand, the port is a godsend. Yes, there’s a stick to access it, but it is swift and sure and not followed up by an apology for a blown vein. And my hands are free to read and write, which is how I pass my hours in chemo.

A quick trip to Goodwill to procure a few men’s button-down shirts (for easy access to the port) and I am both casual and comfortable with only a small tube looping up to the saline, dexamethasone ^[2] (Decadron), or Kyprolis. And, in a tight spot, I can always throw on a tie and go to court (that’s a joke, you all; but I do know how to tie a tie properly).

Indeed, life got infinitely easier when I capitulated to having a port put in.

A port is an access; a related word, “portal,” is a door or entrance. Doors have always held a special fas­ci­na­tion for me ^[3] as mystical openings between “here” and “there.” And maybe my port is the gateway between here and there, whatever "there" may be.

Dorothy opened the farmhouse door and stepped into Oz. I am hoping for no less in Cancerland.