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She was my mother. She was 33 years old,
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the same age as my mother when she abandoned me.
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The same age as you, Lana.
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Now, I knew logically, rationally,
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that the woman on the table wasn't my mother.
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But somehow, in the cosmic joke that is my life,
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I felt like she could be.
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And it was poetic justice that I would be meeting her
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for the first time on a slab in my gross anatomy class.
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It was then that I knew what I was missing.
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A mother's touch.
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Skin-to-skin contact.