On the one hand, I couldn't wait to go in for my second hCG test, the one that would reveal whether my levels were increasingly appropriately. "Knowing won't change anything," Paul pointed out with his customary and damnable good sense. But that's not entirely true. If it's good news, knowing will reassure me, inasmuch as anything could right now. And if it's bad news, I would rather have some kind of warning. I'd like to have time to stock up on vodka and Cheetos.
On the other hand, I dawdled this morning as long as I could before heading in to get blood drawn. Once I was at the lab, I hid in the bathroom when they first called my name. And then, once stabbed, I bled as slowly as I could. (Think clotty thoughts. Fibrin. Scaaaaaabs!)
I realized I don't really care to know, after all. I can't really believe the best yet, but neither am I eager to confirm the worst, if it's going to come to pass.