"Was I just told that I have ** ****** to live?"

The day before Thanksgiving, I was finally FINALLY back to see my oncologist.
"Okay, we have the results of the additional testing and the PET scan. I presented your case at tumor board and I've consulted with my colleagues." He read from my ever-thickening medical chart. "The PET scan showed a few things of concern."
He told us--my mom, husband and I--that there was a thickening of my Sigmoid colon. Two of my lymph nodes lit up on the the scan as well. He informed me of a benign mass in my breast and a calcification on my right lung. The conversation felt casual. Quickly, it turned unpleasant. "There are two very small mets on your liver. They are so small, they have only been visible on the PET scan."
What does that mean? "Ok, so ..."
He took a deep breath and said, "You've got Stage IV colon cancer."
"Stage IV?" I repeated in disbelief. I wanted so bad, with ever fiber in my body, for it to be Stage II or III. Those stages are curable. Most of the time, Stage IV is not.
Dr. W. told me of a few of his other patients with the same cancer as mine, good stories of their long, healthy lives. I was relishing in his optimistic words when he said, "So .. with that being said, your prognosis is ** *****." (What he said was an amount of time. At this time, I'm choosing not to disclose that information in case my children happen upon this blog.)
WHAT? 
Dr. W. moved right on. He told me about my treatment plan and I forced myself to pay attention. "We are going to be aggressive. I want you to start chemotherapy as soon as possible."
12 treatments, every two weeks. Something called Avastin. Something called FU. Something called Oxaliplatin. A chemo port. A pump in a fanny pack that I'd carry for 46 hours. On what days again? Is my mom taking notes? 
Dr. W. finished the consult and shook my hand. He exited the room, leaving his nurse K behind. A silent moment passed after the door closed behind him until I said, "Wait a second, what just happened? Was I just told that I have ** ******* to live?"
K spoke up. "That part of your prognosis is standard. You can't focus on that because you are going to live a very long life."
I looked up at her. She was being sincere. With tears in my eyes, I said, "Okay."
K educated us about the port, the pump, what to expect as far as treatment scheduling went, etc. Standing in the hallway after the appointment, I was overwhelmed. "Wow. This was a heavy appointment."
K gave me a hug and whispered in my ear, "You are going to live a very long life."
She had said it twice and I couldn't help but to believe her. I thanked her, took my samples and treatment plan papers from her, and walked out of the clinic with my husband and my mom.

So, here I sit. 41, in the prime of my life, enjoying my family to the fullest ... with stage IV colon cancer. Needless to say, I'm in shock.

Carry on,
~K