I was diagnosed with multiple myeloma when my only daughter was six months old. I’ve experienced parenthood and cancerhood for ap­prox­i­mate­ly the same amount of time, and I can tell you the one thing these two states have in com­mon: Everyone wants to give you advice.

I suppose most of it is well-meaning advice. I mean, who wouldn’t want to know that letting a three-year-old keep her pacifier is going to turn her into a serial killer? Who doesn’t want to know that her myeloma specialist is a quack? Thanks so much, advice-givers!

When you become a parent, you are bombarded with information and options. Should you pick up your baby or let her cry it out? Cloth diapers or paper? Which pediatrician is the best?

A myeloma diagnosis comes with the same overwhelming mountain of information and choices. Which specialist should you see? Should you go for aggressive treatment and complete remission, or just try to keep your disease stable?

There is no correct answer to any of these questions. It all depends on what is best for you and your par­tic­u­lar baby/disease. And no matter which option you pick, no matter how much research you do before mak­ing your choice, and no matter how strongly you feel your choice is the best one for you, somebody out there is going to disagree.

I’m not talking about family and friends. I’m not talking about nice, normal people. I’m talking about – you know – Those People.

I once read a parenting article online. The author had visited a park and noticed that the parents were all following their kids around and playing with them. The author was horrified. How would the kids ever learn independence? The kids should learn to play alone! Such terrible parents!

I knew I’d done this. I felt guilty.

Days later, I read a different parenting article by a different author. This time, the author had visited a park and noticed that the parents were all checking their phones, and the kids were playing by themselves. The author was horrified. The parents were all disengaged! The kids felt neglected! Such terrible parents!

I knew I’d done this. I felt guilty.

See? You can’t win. As soon as you become a parent, you enter a world where other people are watching you and thinking they could do a better job.

In that regard, I guess parenthood prepared me for the world of cancer. I once started chatting with another myeloma patient, and we compared M-spikes (as myeloma patients tend to do). He told me that mine was way too high, and that I should switch doctors and get different treatment, because his doctor – an amazing, incredible doctor – would never allow an M-spike to get that high.

After further talking, we discovered that – ha ha! – we had the same doctor.

Again, not everyone I encounter is a Judgy McJudgerson. I have found amazing support groups, both for parenting and for myeloma. I joined a moms’ group when my daughter was small, and I found an incredible group of friends. We supported each other through the sleepless newborn stage until the first day of kin­der­garten, and beyond.

I’ve also met a great group of myeloma patients online who are always supportive. Groups like this are so important in the cancer world, as they help you feel like you’re not alone.

In fact, it seems the strongest opinions seem to come from people who have never had children and/or cancer.

I was once hounded about my daughter’s potty training by a childless friend who wanted to give me daily pointers.  She said she “just happened” to be on a potty-training web site and wanted to tell me what she’d found. I finally lied and said my daughter was completely potty-trained, even though she was still mostly using the potty seat as a helmet.

I was once given herbs by a well-meaning acquaintance who knew that this remedy was going to cure my “melanoma,” so that I wouldn’t have to rely on “harmful chemicals.” The herbs made their way to the trash.

I’ve discovered that the secret to dealing with unwanted cancer advice and parenting advice is the same: Trust your instincts, trust your oncologist/pediatrician, and surround yourself with people who will genuinely support your choices.

Do this, and the unwanted advice will just bounce off of you. It’ll be like you’re wearing a magic shield, or, at the very least, a potty-seat helmet.