Hi, I'm Susanne, and I have Mets

But then, you probably already knew that. I should introduce myself, shouldn't I?

I'm 39 at the time of this writing, and at the time of my diagnosis. In exactly 2 months, I'll turn 40. I don't do anything halfway, do I? Right off the bat, mets. The m-word. I'm a permanent resident of Cancerland.

Right now, it's not bad. I might even get a shot at the coveted NED award. No Evidence of Disease. It's not quite the death sentence it used to be. Not always. Sometimes it is. Sometimes you sit in that room and you're told something out of Hollywood: "You have cancer. You have six months to live." But sometimes you even get told that and end up thumbing your nose at that prediction for years to come. Sometimes you live for years with mets. It can sometimes be managed, but it will always be there.

Metastatic breast cancer kills. There's no cute way to soften that up. The clock is ticking, but we've got a chance now for more minutes added to that clock than used to be thought possible.

Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes... times two... times three... times twenty. Times more.

I've got a damn good chance at that more. I know there's also a chance I'll lose. But win or lose, I'm fighting this tooth and nail every damned step of the way. I'm not going to stop fighting. Even if I should ever have to ultimately make a choice to discontinue treatment to preserve quality of life, I'm still going to fight for every single minute more that I can possibly win away from this enemy.

In the immortal words of Bugs Bunny, as you know... this means war.

I'm not going to stop fighting for a moment. I have too much to live for, too much to fight for. We all do, of course. But no one's going to lose me if I have anything to say about it.

I'm realistic, but I'm not defeated. Optimistic, but not deluded. I'm digging in deep for the fight of my life, quite literally. I know this is the war that never ends, it just goes on and on, my friends. There is no "cure". This war will not end in a grand finale battle of pink ribbons and quippy quotes.

(Well, no, it'll have plenty of quippy quotes, we're talking about me here. I quip like I breathe.)

I'm metastatic.

That's an ugly word.

War is an ugly word.

But it's a damned beautiful life.