Well, friends, it is time to live blog another Rick-Yudell baby.

Jacqui’s contractions are 5-6 minutes apart for about a half hour now, so we are heading over to the hospital.

We’ll keep you posted.



Today is my 42nd birthday.

Well, sort of. I am a leap year baby, so I don’t officially have a birthday this year. Despite the uniqueness of being a ten-year-old 42-year old, I am thrilled to be another year older, to be healthy, and to have a loving family that is going to expand in days or perhaps just hours (no, no labor yet).

It has been an emotional few weeks– the relief of a clean CT scan, memories of my father who’s Yartzeit and birthday were this week, and the passing of Jon Galinson, a friend and fellow traveler on the lymphoma road who tragically lost his battle with Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia earlier in the week. I did not know Jon well, but over the last 24 months, Jon and his wife Yael struggled mightily through endless rounds of chemo and a bone marrow transplant. Jon leaves behind his wife and two young daughters. Reading the tributes to him on his CaringPages website, I am sure that Jon’s legacy of love and commitment to his family and friends will live on through all who knew him. He was 40.

We are anxiously awaiting Baby Grover’s arrival (named by Sophia, of course, who has been put in charge of “big lovies” once the baby arrives).

Once we have labor, we will post news here at BaldMike.

Then and Now

What a difference three years makes…

Yesterday I passed an awesome milestone. Although I am just two months shy of my three year “I Conquered Chemo (and chemo kicked my ass)” anniversary, yesterday marked my third annual CT scan. I wanted to get the scan and doctor’s visit out of the way before Jacqui gives birth to our second child in a few weeks (due date March 7–no, we do not know the gender). My three year scan and visit was all clear, and I have been officially downgraded to a twice a year patient. Wow. Wow. What a relief.

There are, to be sure, still hurdles ahead. I am still well aware of the risk of relapse. And the distance between progress and reality is still measured by those who I know who still struggle actively with the disease. But as each year passes and I remain healthy, that risk for me decreases, and the likelihood increases that even if I should relapse, the march of time also marks the march of progress against lymphoma. New studies and clinical trials, now published monthly, are giving so much hope for healthy futures to men and women who have been on my journey or who are scarily just beginning it.

It is still incredible to me to think where I was just a little more than three years ago. Jacqui was then six months pregnant, and with our lives turned upside down, we struggled through me in chemo, and soon a wonderful new baby.

Well, now Sophia, that miracle child, who then came into the world with the news that I had successfully been blasted into complete remission, is three and soon to be a big sister. She is a thriving girl, and every day with her marks for us both a victory over lymphoma, and the reality that every day is a blessing.

Days like yesterday are still tough. I completed my CT scan at 9am, spent 30 minutes in the bathroom passing the colonic big gulp the CT scanned are forced to drink to distinguish their digestive tracts from their other internal organs, had a quick meeting with a student, then wandered the city nervously, waiting for my 4pm appointment back at Penn to find out whether or not I had passed my test and if I would be graduated to another year of “lymphoma-free”-dom. I bought gifts for Jacqui, Sophia, and my doctors and nurses, I sweat a lot, and worried that once again, with a baby on the way, I would again be a patient. The mind can go to terrible places in times like these.

But relief came quickly in the form of an email from my beloved nurse practitioner, Lisa Downs, who at 12:30 emailed me to say “Mike, breath… Your scans look great…” And so I did. I let out an audible sigh of relief that turned several heads in my direction. I did my best not to cry. And started frantically making phone calls to let Jacqui, my mom, sister, in-laws, and other family and friends know that I was OK.

And so it was a good day.

Now it’s baby time.

Bone Marrow Drive for a Friend


A friend in California is in search of a compatible donor to treat and hopefully cure his Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia.

Please see below for instructions on how to register for the potentially life saving bone marrow donor registry.

Jon has two young children and a lovely wife.

Please consider trying to help them out by registering for the National Marrow Donor Program.

Thanks and Love.

Dear Friends,

As many of you know, my husband Jon was diagnosed with Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia (CLL) last year. He has been undergoing chemotherapy for the past seven months. Jon’s best hope for a cure is a stem cell transplant, and we are currently in search of a match for him. We are asking all of our friends, family members, friends of friends and everyone in our extended circle (and your extended circles) to register with the Be the Match Registry of the National Marrow Donor Program as soon as possible. The process to join is very simple and involves a medical questionnaire and a cheek swab. You can read more about it at: .

If you are local in the Bay Area, there will be two opportunities to join the registry:

· Sunday, June 7, from 11am – 5pm at our booth at Israel in the Gardens. See for more information.

· Sunday, June 14, from 1:00pm – 6pm at Congregation Netivot Shalom, 1316 University Avenue, Berkeley.

If you live out of town or can’t make it to one of the above events, you can join via our online drive at . When asked to provide a promo code, please type in JonGalinson.

Thank you for considering joining the registry and for helping us spread the word to as many people as possible.

Good News for Mantle Cell Lymphoma Patients and Survivors

I visited my doctor at Penn last week and received another clean bill of health. In just a few weeks I will be officially two years out of chemo and I continue to be in complete remission.

That’s the good news.

Here’s the better news.

When I was diagnosed with lymphoma now almost four years ago (I went untreated for almost two years), the median remission for a patient diagnosed with my subtype of lymphoma was 4-5 years (with few options with recurrence). My lymphoma, MCL, was often referred to as a “poor prognosis lymphoma,” and the internet was filled with scary statistics that left me wondering if I’d reach my mid-40s. And even though my doctor (and others) had told me that the tide had turned with MCL, and that that sea-change was not yet reflected in the medical literature (patients were surviving the disease, they said), it was still horrifying to read some cancer websites which still called my disease incurable.

Well, folks, all that seems to be changing. And quickly.

First, a recently published article in the journal Blood suggests a cure for MCL for patients treated with a very aggressive transplant regimen:

A second study, presented recently at the American Society of Hematology, significantly extends the median failure free survival time for MCL (to 7 years) for patients treated with R-Hyper CVAD (what I had), and is also suggestive of a cure (there is a tail on the survival curve–some patients are almost 10 years out), but only time will tell for that:

Keep up the good work doctors and scientists. This is all great stuff. Thanks!!!

Living in Remission

Jacqui, Sophia, and I just returned from the San Francisco where I gave the keynote address at the North American Educational Forum on Lymphoma. We had a fantastic week in San Fran. What a great city.

Here’s the talk:

Remission is such an ugly word. At least it is to me. And I suspect that it has that same quality to many of you. Remission, that place on the lymphoma road where the signs and symptoms of our disease have disappeared, is for some a fleeting place of respite before the battle begins again, and for others a temporary stop on the way to a cure. Remission suggests something transitory; that something is hiding; lurking in our bodies in a place that cannot be scanned, probed, or extracted. But no matter the ultimate outcome, it is a difficult place to be.

Now don’t get me wrong. I am thrilled to be in remission and expect to be here either for a very long time or forever. But living in remission is, and Californians will have to excuse this reference, but it is like waiting for the “big one,” knowing that the odds are decent that it might occur in your lifetime, but, that, well, it might just not.

Two years ago this month I checked into the University of Pennsylvania Hospital for a rigorous protocol of R-Hypr-CVAD that required me to be an in-patient every three weeks for three nights for over eight months. When chemo began my wife Jacqueline was almost six months pregnant with our first child. And as if that weren’t enough, in the middle of all of this craziness two very separate events defined what I call our lymphoma year: my daughter Sophia was born on November 30th and the very next morning I found out that the chemo that had made me sick, rendered me unable to take the best care of my lovely wife during her pregnancy, had worked and had quickly put me into remission; BUT, at that same time, during that same week of miracles, my father, who himself had battled cancer for almost nine years, had a recurrence. He declined quickly, and would pass a few months later while I was tethered to an IV, unable to be with him at his end. My solace in that is that in the months before he died he was able to spend some nice time with Sophia; that despite the cruel timing of his illness, he got to be a grandfather.

Looking back on that time in my life, it almost seems unreal. I have my health and my hair back, I have a beautiful daughter who’s smile lights up our house, I have been back at work now for more than a year, next weekend I will race in my first triathlon since treatment, and just a few weeks ago I saw my doctor at the University of Pennsylvania, Steve Schuster, who smiled as he saw the results of my latest tests, confirming that indeed his work had been a great, albeit, punishing success. I stand before you here today as both a sign of the progress in treating lymphoma—I can expect a long remission and hold out hope for a cure because of the research that all of us in this room are helping to make happen—and as a symbol of how much more work needs to be done in lymphoma research and prevention—because I understand that it is likely that some day my lymphoma will return. I remain confident that events like today’s that build connections between people like us will help keep us all healthy far into the future.

But despite my success as a patient, life in remission is not easy.

I am, therefore, for the foreseeable future, of two minds. On the one hand and foremost, I am an optimist. Despite statistically intimidating odds, I have no doubt that I will get to share with my loving family the joys and challenges of a full life; that I will live see my daughter grow up and dance with her at her wedding; and that I will grow old to become a creaky and cranky old man who complains loudly about things like drafts from the air conditioning, the pastrami being too fatty or too lean, and the fact that kids today don’t know from good music or movies!

On the other hand, being a survivor of lymphoma is no easy task. Despite the fact that I am in confirmed molecular remission for almost two years now AND despite the fact that a soon-to-be-released study doubles the five year survival of my subtype of lymphoma (and I should add that this new data does not include using rituxan as part of this protocol), that every time I read an article in the medical literature that says my disease is chronic and that it can be a poor prognosis lymphoma, I want to vomit; that when friends grow sicker from the ravages of chemo, or when their chemo fails and they are forced to try more radical approaches to treating their diseases such as allo- or auto-transplants or the unknowns of clinical trials, I fear that this too is my future; and, finally, that when someone I know dies from their lymphoma— as happened recently to Amber Pedraja, one of our founding chapter members in Philadelphia—I am terrified, knowing very well that I too might die prematurely; that I will leave my wife alone with our daughter, that I will not continue to do the research and writing that I love, and that my friends will remember me not for the life I led, but for a life cut short.

These contradictions are the essence of my life in remission. They are the yin and yang of my daily existence. They are inescapable. Yes, there are moments when I forget that I am a lymphoma survivor, moments that over time have grown in both frequency and length to sometimes take me weeks without really thinking about it. But as all of us who are survivors know, and even, I suspect, those who are considered cured, we have all been irrevocably changed by our experience with this disease. And because lymphoma itself is a disease filled with contradictions—some lymphomas are easier to treat than others, some are curable while others are chronic, and while we know lymphoma is a form of cancer, popular sentiment is often ignorant of this fact—our own internal struggles are thus reinforced.

I must admit that these contradictions have had effects on me that I do not always like. The moments that feel the worst are the moments when I feel angry that this has to be a part of my life; that my wife, who lost her mother at a young age to cancer has again been forced to consider an indescribable loss and that my daughter may not always feel me close to her. I am also angry at the way in which lymphoma stripped away my innocence. My father survived cancer for almost a decade so I was not ignorant of what illness can do, but, heck, I was diagnosed at 36, three weeks after my wedding. The only way I have been able to make sense of my situation, and of the suffering and pain that I have seen around me, is to conclude that there is NO sense to make of this, and that obsessing about a cosmic cause for my lymphoma is ultimately meaningless.

I have decided instead that meaning has and will come from the way in which I live my life; the type of father, husband, son and brother I am; the way I commit myself to my friends, my colleagues, and my community; and the way I dedicate myself to improving the lives of other lymphoma patients through the work I do as part of the Lymphoma Research Foundation.

In other words, I have been forced to take from the contradictions so inherent in lymphoma to choose life. And for me there have been a couple of things that have gotten me to this place that I’d like to share with you, because I think that in shared dialog we can perhaps find our place and our peace in this. A lymphoma diagnosis is disorienting and turns your world upside-down, and one of the best things I did for myself was to talk to psychologist about what I was feeling. Not only did that take a load off my own shoulders, but it helped me defer some of the fear and anxiety away from my wife, and allowed us to take better care of each other.

Second, I dedicated myself to something that could help both keep me in physical shape and also be a distraction. The distraction part was so important because if I didn’t stop poking at my lymph nodes I might just have poked a hole in my own neck. So I began talking long walks with my family and dog, and I began to train for a triathlon. Anything that gets you out-of-doors, breathing in fresh, hopefully clean air, works. It clears the mind and I think has helped cleanse my soul a bit. When I am feeling extra-stressed relating to lymphoma in some way, I go for a walk or a run and it clears my mind. It helps me from getting too stuck in my own head.

Third, one of the ways in which I have tried to lessen the anxieties of living in remission is to, as much as possible, jettison the “r” word from my lymphoma vocabulary. Instead of talking of remission, I talk of myself as lymphoma-free. For me, it is simply a positive way of talking about what I know is remission, but my linguistic twister makes me feel better about the future.
Fourth, and I suspect this is what has brought us all here today, I have dedicated myself to doing what I can do to providing support for other patients and survivors and to finding new treatments and a cure for lymphoma. A few weeks after my initial diagnosis I spoke to an old friend who had been diagnosed a few years before me with the same rare subtype of lymphoma. He told me of his involvement in LRF, and I asked him what I could do. That began a series of discussions that led to my wife and I, along with a dedicated group of other survivors and family members, to founding the Philadelphia/Delaware Valley Chapter of the LRF. And that it what brings me here to you today.

And, finally, I never hesitated to reach out to friends and family to talk with them about what I was going through. I knew that for some it would be uncomfortable, either because of their own direct and indirect experiences with illness. But nonetheless, I took the opportunity to create a large support group for Jacqui and I, and to also create a network for my friends and family to reach out to one another. There are many ways to do this, but I decided to do it though an online journal, or a blog. You can create them yourself or you can use a web service like

I named my blog and blogged about both the mundane and the crazy from my chemo days. I shared the gory details of how my body reacted to drugs, wrote about my fears and my hopes for the future, and joked about everything from vomit to how I was convinced that Dick Cheney was breaking into the computer at my hospital to change my counts to keep me locked in my own neutropenic prison. I even wrote about the horrible chemo-induced low-platelet nosebleed I developed on Yom Kippur that I called the “Great Yom Kippur nosebleed of 5767”. I wrote in the blog that day:

“I know there are those of you out there who are saying to yourselves: “it is Yom Kippur, Mike’s stuck at home watching horrible television for the 8th straight day, he’s too tired to read and work on his book, so he MUST have been picking his nose.” And since it is past sundown for the year 5767 and I have a full year to apologize for all of my sins, I can tell you in all honesty, that no, I was not picking, I was just scratching my nose because of the dryness from chemotherapy.

I want to conclude by asking us to consider the following statistic: non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma rates since the 1970s have nearly doubled. We have yet to figure out what has driven this dramatic increase; some studies have pointed to environmental exposures such as pesticides or viruses. But one thing is for sure: we will never eradicate this disease if we do not know what causes it. This will not necessarily matter for those of us who are either living with or have survived lymphoma. And obviously the LRF and the scientists we partner with are hard at work developing treatments and cures. But if we want to save future generations from this disease, I urge us to consider reaching out to our colleagues in the world of public health—the epidemiologists and environmental health scientists—to help us figure out the causes of this illness so that we can begin to prevent it.

Thank you for the opportunity to speak with you all today. Thank you to the LRF for all that they have done and continue to do on our behalf. And thank you to the clinicians here today who dedicate themselves to bettering our lives. Good health to us all.
Thank you.

I now have the pleasure of introducing you to my wife Jacqueline Rick. While many of us here today are survivors, there are also here with us here today the caregivers, friends, and loved ones who have dedicated themselves to taking care of us in sickness AND in health, and I thought that my speech to you today would be incomplete without hearing the perspective of a caregiver, in this case, my wife.

Before I bring her up can I ask all of the caregivers in the room—all of the husbands, wives, partners, lovers, and friends and family to please stand up and be acknowledged for all that they have done for us.

Jacqueline, not a day has gone by in our now more than seven years together when I didn’t feel like a better man because of you; I feel your love in both moments of laughter and silence, joy and pain; Jacqui, despite originally being diagnosed with lymphoma just months after our wedding you have stood by me through the difficulties of coping with a potentially deadly illness, and even when the stress of life could have divided us, it brought us closer and closer together (I should say that through months 6 through 8 of her pregnancy Jacqui slept on a cot next to me in the hospital, never leaving my side); finally, everyday I gain great pleasure parenting our daughter with you and watching you mother Sophia with tenderness and love.

All’s Well

It turned out to be a fairly quick trip to Rhodes 6 and I was home for lunch on Monday. As always, the nurses and doctors on Rhodes 6 made my life as easy as possible while imprisoned there. My eternal thanks to them for taking great care of me during my visit.

Tests have confirmed my remission and we have quickly gotten back to life both lymphoma-free AND lymphoma-related-free.

Now back to blogging about fun stuff. Here are a few recent photos of Sophia who is thriving.

Not “Sick, Sick” Just Sick

I have not blogged on health related issues for a long while, and find myself in the unenviable position of doing so out of necessity, although, thank God, NOT because I am sick from lymphoma. 

Every six months I receive several doses of rituxan as a maintenance drug, meaning that it is given to me in the hope of either prolonging remission or preventing recurrence. My first rituxan maintenance cycle last October went smoothly and there were no side-effects, of which there are generally none. However, there are a few side-effects that can be difficult for the patient, one of which is the dreaded neutropenia. And this is what has landed me in the hospital from my second dose of rituxan.
The letter below by my lovely wife Jacqui explains it in a little more detail. Again, thanks for all of your continued support and love over the last few years. Being healthy again I have not forgotten all that you have done for Jacqui, Sophia, Otis, and myself. I remain humbled by the decency and generosity of spirit all of our friends and family showed us during the chemo time and I look forward to celebrating my health with all of you again soon. With that in mind, we will soon be having the Second Annual Mike Yudell Lymphoma-Free Run (plus a celebration of the official completion of my Ph.D. from Columbia). Hope to see you all soon.

Dear friends,
For those who haven’t heard, Michael is fine but back in the hospital since Wednesday. He had another reaction to a drug that he still takes called Rituxin. He feels lousy with a fever, eye infection and mouth sores so big and tender that one side of his face is swollen and he can’t comfortably eat. But thankfully he will be fine and we hope to have him home in the next few days.

In full disclosure, I have ulterior motives for sending this information around to all of you. We are lucky in that Michael remains lymphoma-free yet lymphoma is obviously still very present in our lives. I thought now might be the perfect time to make another plea for donations to help fight this disease that has literally changed our lives forever. It is not easy for me to ask you all year after year for money. I do not enjoy this part of my involvement in lymphoma organizations. But as my close friends I know that you want to do something to help. And since most of you live far away, I hope you’ll take the money that you want to spend on bringing us takeout chinese food in the hospital, and donate it here….

I have an 8 mile training run tomorrow at 6 am and I should have gone to sleep long ago. But having Michael in the hospital, even when we know that he will be okay, is sad and scary and hard to explain to Sophia. I find myself lying awake at night thinking about her the most.

So please consider making a donation. I don’t know about you but I never feel like I donate too much to charity. Thank you to those who have already given money. And as always thank you for your friendship and support. Hope to see some of you locals at my half marathon on September 21st and our lymphomathon charity walk on September 20th.


In the Jewish tradition one does not bury the dead with a headstone. That event happens later and is called the “unveiling.”

We celebrated my father’s life at his unveiling on June 22. We read some prayers and sang some songs. I think it would have made him happy.

Sophia, whom will only remember her Grandpa Allen through our memories, was very sweet during our short ceremony and we were all touched when she sat down on her Grandpa’s headstone.

What follows are the prayers and songs we sang as we celebrated my father’s life.

Allen Charles Yudell, February 24, 1939-February 21, 2007

We Are Loved By An Unending Love
By Rabbi Rami Shapiro

We are loved by an unending love.
We are embraced by arms that find us even when we are hidden from ourselves.
We are touched by fingers that soothe us even when we are too proud for soothing.
We are counseled by voices that guide us even when we are too embittered to hear.
We are loved by an unending love.
We are supported by hands that uplift us even in the midst of a fall.

We are urged on by eyes that meet us even when we are too weak for meeting.
We are loved by an unending love.
Embraced, touched, soothed, and counseled,
Ours are the arms, the fingers, the voices;
Ours are the hands, the eyes, the smiles;
We are loved by an unending love.

Psalm 121
I will lift up mine eyes unto the mountains;
From whence shall my help come?
My help cometh from the Lord, Who made heaven and earth.
He will not suffer thy foot be moved;
He that keepeth thee will not slumber.
Behold, He that keepeth Israel Doth neither slumber nor sleep.
The Lord is thy keeper;
The Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand.
The sun shall not smite thee by day, Nor the moon by night.
The Lord shall keep thee from all evil;
He shall keep thy soul.
The Lord shall guard thy going out and thy coming in,
From this time forth and forever.


El malay rachamim shochen bamiromim,
Hamtzey menucha nechona tachas kanfey hashechina,
B’ maalos kedoshim ut’ horim kezohar harakeea
mazhirim es nishma Chiam Guttman.
Shehalach 1’olamo
Ba’voor shenadvoo tzedaka b’ad
hazkaras nishmaso
b’ gan eden t’ hay m’ noochaso
lachen baal harachamim
yastirayhoo b’seser kna fav 1’olamim
v’ytzror bitzror hachayim es nishmaso
Adonoy hoo nachalaso, v’yanooach
b’shalom al mishkavo, v’nomar

O, God, full of compassion, grant perfect rest beneath the shelter of Thy divine presence among the holy and pure who shine as the brightness of the firmament to the soul of our beloved who has gone to his eternal home.
Mayest Thou, O God of Mercy, shelter him forever under the wings of Thy presence, May his soul be bound up in the bond of life eternal, and grant that the memories of my life inspire me always to noble and consecrated living. Amen.

Unveiling the Headstone

In memory of Allen Yudell, we establish and consecrate this monument.
It is a token of our deep love and respect.
He is remembered now, and forever, part of the good in each of us.
May his soul be bound up in the bonds of life.

Prayer on Unveiling Markers or Monuments

The body has died; the spirit it housed will never die. On earth our dear ones do live on through those of us to whom they were so very precious.
(The covering is removed)
We now fondly dedicate this memorial to the blessed memory of Allen Yudell realizing that his remains lie not only in this plot of ground but in every heart his life did touch.

O G-d, we are grateful for the years we were privileged to share with him -years when he brought us so many pleasures and taught us so very much by example.

And even thought he has left our midst, we know he will never leave our hearts where his memory will endure as a blessing forever.

Mourner’s Kaddish

Yit’gadal v’yit’kadash sh’mei raba (Cong: Amein).
May G-d’s great Name grow exalted and sanctified (`Cong: Amen.)

b’al’ma di v’ra khir’utei
in the world that G-d created as She willed.

v’yam’likh mal’khutei b’chayeikhon uv’yomeikhon
May She give reign to Her kingship in your lifetimes and in your days,

uv’chayei d’khol beit yis’ra’eil
and in the lifetimes of the entire Family of Israel,

ba’agala uviz’man kariv v’im’ru:
swiftly and soon. Now say:
(Mourners and Congregation:)

Amein. Y’hei sh’mei raba m’varakh l’alam ul’al’mei al’maya
(Amen. May G-d’s great Name be blessed forever and ever.)

Yit’barakh v’yish’tabach v’yit’pa’ar v’yit’romam v’yit’nasei
Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled,

v’yit’hadar v’yit’aleh v’yit’halal sh’mei d’kud’sha
mighty, upraised, and lauded be the Name of the Holy One
(Mourners and Congregation:)

B’rikh hu.
Blessed is She.

l’eila min kol bir’khata v’shirara
beyond any blessing and song,

toosh’b’chatah v’nechematah, da’ameeran b’al’mah, v’eemru:
praise and consolation that are uttered in the world. Now say:
(Mourners and Congregation:)


Y’hei sh’lama raba min sh’maya
May there be abundant peace from Heaven

v’chayim aleinu v’al kol yis’ra’eil v’im’ru
and life upon us and upon all Israel. Now say:
(Mourners and Congregation:)


Oseh shalom bim’romav hu ya’aseh shalom
G-d Who makes peace in Her heights, may She make peace,

aleinu v’al kol Yis’ra’eil v’im’ru
upon us and upon all Israel. Now say:
(Mourners and Congregation:)


“A House With Love In It”
By Nat King Cole

A house with love in it is rich indeed

although there are a thousand things that house may need

The carpet may be old, the room so plain and bare

and yet it’s beautiful somehow when love is living there

A house with love in it just seems to bloom

as though the month of may were filling every room

So darling true the years with all my heart I’ll pray
a house with love in it is where we’ll stay

So darling true the years with all my heart I’ll pray
a house with love in it is where we’ll stay.

“Nature Boy”
By Nat King Cole

There was a boy

A very strange enchanted boy

They say he wandered very far, very far

Over land and sea

A little shy and sad of eye

But very wise was he

And then one day

A magic day he passed my way

And while we spoke of many things
Fools and kings

This he said to me

“the greatest thing you’ll ever learn
Is just to love and be loved in return”

“Keep Me In Your Heart”

By Warren Zevon & Jorge Calderon

Shadows are falling and I’m running out of breath

Keep me in your heart for awhile

If I leave you it doesn’t mean I love you any less

Keep me in your heart for awhile

When you get up in the morning and you see that crazy sun

Keep me in your heart for awhile

There’s a train leaving nightly called when all is said and done

Keep me in your heart for awhile

Keep me in your heart for awhile

Keep me in your heart for awhile

Sometimes when you’re doing simple things
around the house

Maybe you’ll think of me and smile

You know I’m tied to you like the buttons on
your blouse

Keep me in your heart for awhile

Hold me in your thoughts, take me to your dreams

Touch me as I fall into view

When the winter comes keep the fires lit

And I will be right next to you

Engine driver’s headed north to Pleasant Stream

Keep me in your heart for awhile

These wheels keep turning but they’re running out
of steam

Keep me in your heart for awhile


Keep me in your heart for awhile


Keep me in your heart for awhile

Keep me in your heart for awhile