Word: ated
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...usually starts an hour after I eat: a burning sensation that hovers somewhere behind my breastbone. If I have an antacid on hand, the burning subsides. If not, it builds until I'm in fiery agony. I still remember one awful night 25 years ago, when I ate a greasy lump of fried dough on a train in Yugoslavia. It felt as though I had swallowed a vial of hydrochloric acid. Actually, that's not too far from the truth. The stomach is essentially a bag filled with powerful acid. If it weren't for a lining of protective cells...
...other method of preparation took place the morning before the big event, when I ate Wheaties and put on my lucky shirt. Never having played sports seriously, I didn't actually have a lucky shirt, so I just picked one and called it lucky. If I didn't do well, I would just call it my unlucky shirt and throw it away. I spent most of the morning on the shirt thing...
...BROCCOLI Among all the cancer-fighting vegetables, broccoli, cauliflower and cabbage stand out, especially in cancers of the bladder. Regardless of how many fruits and vegetables a group of 48,000 men ate, only those consuming broccoli and related cruciferous veggies reduced their risk of bladder cancer, according to a report in the Journal of the National Cancer Institute. Broccoli and its kin may fight cancer by detoxifying organisms in the gut that would otherwise trigger malignancies in bladder tissue...
...over again. His trip down to Baltimore to get surgery, my pretend excuse of going there too--"Really, I'm visiting Hopkins and Georgetown." My father lying in bed, looking pretty good for someone being invaded by tubes and catheters, my nervous mother, all the shrimp and barbecue we ate down by the waterfront when my father was hungry again. I had thought that it was all over. The doctor had worked his magic on my surgeon-father so unaccustomed to playing the victim on the operating table rather than the needle-and-knife bearer...
...over again. His trip down to Baltimore to get surgery, my pretend excuse for going there too--"Really, I'm visiting Hopkins and Georgetown." My father lying in bed, looking pretty good for someone being invaded by tubes and catheters, my nervous mother, all the shrimp and barbecue we ate down by the waterfront when my father was hungry again. I had thought that it was all over. The doctor had worked his magic on my surgeon-father so unaccustomed to playing the victim on the operating table rather than the needle-and-knife-bearer...