So this is something I’ve learned about having cancer: It’s kinda like being pregnant.

Let me explain.

When you are pregnant, at least into the second and third trimester, it’s pretty obvious that there is something going on. That baby bump is a dead giveaway.

Same with cancer; the bald head and lack of facial hair are a beacon that says, “Hey, cancer lady here!”

And just like pregnancy, when you have cancer it seems that EVERYONE wants to tell you their story. There is something about that visual trigger of the baby bump or the bald head that seems to compel complete strangers to walk up and make tone-deaf comments to you.

To be fair, I have had some people stop me and offer their support. Usually, those are spouses and caregivers of current and former cancer patients. And I truly appreciate those conversations.

But most of the comments from casual acquaintances and complete strangers are cringe-worthy, at best.

Case in point, the woman in my quilt guild who, early on, assured me that I probably would not lose my hair because when her brother-in-law went through chemo, he didn’t experience any hair loss. (Ummm, pretty sure your brother-in-law didn’t have uterine cancer.)

Then there was the waitress and fellow uterine cancer patient at the neighborhood pizza restaurant who made a point to tell me all about getting an impacted colon from chemo. (Glad you waited until after we’d eaten to share that charming anecdote.)

If there is any consolation, it’s that — unlike my gestating sisters — I have yet to experience total strangers touching my bald head without warning or my permission.

Don’t get me wrong; I do understand that many people who are going through difficult times find comfort in hearing horror stories from others. It helps them feel connected, lets them know that they are not going through this alone. I totally get that. That’s what support groups are for.

But unsolicited advice is my kryptonite. I hate it. Always have. And nothing puts my back up more than hearing a sentence that begins, “When Jimmy had cancer…”

Sorry, dude. This is my cancer and I’m dealing with it the best way I can. So instead of telling me how much more horrible radiation will be than chemo, or sharing the story of your next door neighbor whose cancer came back six months after chemo, all I ask is that you simply offer your support and best wishes that my treatment is successful. THAT’s a sentiment that I will hold in my heart.

In return, I will promise not to throat-punch the next person who tells me that her mom’s hair came back after chemo “really curly and a completely different color.”

‘Cause if I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that one…