Hiking where the Chumash gathered

The steps down into what we think is a recreation of a sweat lodge were steep enough that I needed to give myself a boost by partly pulling myself.

Tumblrs: Oakbrook Regional Park

In May of 2015, all I could do was look on from the outside.

Oakbrook Regional Park was occupied by Chumash Indians as long ago as 12,000 years ago. The appeal for the Chumash and us was the hundreds--probably thousands when they were there--of magnificent oaks.We love their sculptural, twisty-turny trunks. The Chumash were undoubtedly drawn by the acorns, a dietary staple for them, as well by the area's seasonal creek.

The Chumash Indian Museum manages the park, and they also built a recreated Chumash village,

which looks like it receives a regular stream of schoolchildren on outings. On our first outing to the park, I brought both my hiking sticks and my Hurrycane. On the way up, I used the cane, and as an experiment, on the way back I used the sticks.

Even though I was already tired, I found I could travel much farther with less energy with the hiking sticks. Thereafter, I began using the hiking sticks exclusively.

Even so, I was so tired that I lunged for the first

bench we found. This time, it was Joella's turn to lust for the chance to rest. I've gotten so strong that I barely noticed the incline that had so exhausted me on the first visit. But it didn't escape Joella's notice

My welcome rest in 2015.

But we knew she would love the park's magnificent oaks, and we were right.

As usual, after the portion of our walk with Joella and a nice picnic, we headed off to a more vigorous hike. There we hiked in an oak forest that looked like it had barely been altered since the Chumash roamed it. Well, besides the road, of course.

You could almost imagine the Chumash gathering the acorns and grinding them into a mash that they would leach of its tannins and turn into a flour.

In fact, don't those flat rocks look like grinding rocks? No, it's probably our imagination running away with us. Perhaps they were caused by erosion instead.

But I couldn't get the rock out of my mind. When we returned to Joella, I slipped into the Chumash Indian Museum to ask an employee about the rocks.

Yes, she told me. Those holes were made by the Chumash.

Wow, very cool!

All told, we hiked 2.74 miles though the former home of the Chumash, who gathering acorns blissfully unaware that they would be one day shunted off their land into reservations.

The Chumash now own a casino, while a small museum pays tribute to their nearly forgotten culture.

On that sad note, here's a bonus pic of a huge, burned-out tree smack dab in the middle of the parking lot. It's hollowed out, yet it still survives, much like the Chumash.

My own devices

Finally sending away my wheelchair last week did more than free up trunk space. It's also revived memories of the path I've traveled since my awakening and the now-unneeded mobility tools that helped me get there, however briefly.

I haven't needed the wheelchair for some time, and I had no real attachment to it. In fact, the only reason I hadn't made the call to have it picked up was it didn't really matter to me one way or the other. Plus, my ADHD makes me an inveterate procrastinator.

But now that it's gone, I've been casting my eye on the other mobility paraphernalia that we can't return because we purchased them ourselves.

I'm using the walker as parallel bars for my physical therapy exercises, so it still serves a recovery-related purpose. But two of the rollators are simply taking up space. They're awaiting burial in the garage, alongside with the light rollator I thought would be easier to hook on the back of the wheelchair, but was actually harder. We'll eventually give most of them to Goodwill.

One is currently serving as a particularly bulky table for clutter.

Perhaps one of our moms will be able to use the three-wheeled rollator I liked so much. Indeed, my mom has been thinking of buying a similar model. The Winniewalker was the best of the bunch by far.

And then there are the various canes. Lately, I've taken to leaving the Hurrycane behind, though I may still use sometimes it when I think I'll be in a crowd.

Indeed, the history of my recovery is paved with physically enabling devices that I've grown past almost by the time they've arrived. I may never get a chance to use the fancy folding canes Keith gave me as gifts. By the time I don't require the extra stability the Hurrycane provides, I won't need a cane at all.

My stroke-caused vertigo is now the sole reason I might need a cane. That's why I still feel more comfortable with it when I could be jostled and set off balance in a crowd.

And then there are all the accessories we purchased to make those devices more convenient or comfortable. There are several cup holders and totes for the wheelchair, walker, and rollators. The inflatable seat cushion for the wheelchair was insanely expensive, and it was hundreds of bucks cheaper than the top of the line models. We'd like to find a charity that will give it directly to a handicapped person instead of simply selling it to someone who will probably just use it as a regular seat cushion. It's called a Roho. I looked through a catalog my physical therapist in the nursing home lent me. They can run ten times as expensive as the one we chose. Kaiser would only provide a cheap and very thin inflatable seat pad that looked like a waffle. At any rate, since these pads are so obscenely expensive, we're hoping that it will go to a poor veteran or someone like that.

Wheelchairs don't seem to be built for people to sit comfortably in for long periods of time!

You can see the thinness of the pad as it peeks out under my butt. The back pillow is my own pillow. In this case, its thinness was good, allowing it to conform to my back. I'm sitting against it now.

Perhaps we should hold a special garage sale for the mobility-challenged. The only problem is, how to get them here?

And while we're at it, there is the swivel spoon the nursing home occupational therapist
recommended, which I barely needed by the time it arrived.

Or what about the resistance bands? Or the special totes for the walkers and rollators? Or the all-terrain attachment for the cane Kaiser issued to me before Keith gave me the Hurrycane? Or the...

I am strong and beautiful (well, at least cute)

The chalked words read, "I am strong and beautiful."

People who have had near-death experiences--who think they've glimpsed heaven--often talk about how it has changed their lives. Well, in my NDE, I saw miniature zoo animals holding a tea party. That didn't have quite the same impact on my life because I don't believe that actually happened. But my life has changed nonetheless.

It wasn't so much the NDE, but the fact that I came so close to death and survived. Nearly dying has to change your life, whether you think you've had a profound spiritual experience or not. I bested death and came back laughing.

Don't get me wrong; I'm still afraid of death. Fear is really the wrong word. I think death will be final, so I'm not scared of going to Hell or what will happen, other than the possible suffering I might experience. What I'm afraid of is no longer existing. I know that will eventually occur, but I'd just assume put it off as long as possible. I've always been such a procrastinator.

I remain plenty insecure, as well. Just like my dermatomyositis, insecurity can go into remission, but it can never truly be cured.

But, again, the experience of having been so close to death has given me new confidence that I can conquer anything. My recovery has furthered that because I've survived a state so close to death that I would've been given Last Rites if I had been a Catholic. I've also surpassed the predictions of my doctors, who told my loved ones to give up hope for my full recovery. I've defied, as well, the physical therapists at the nursing home who doubted that I was actually walking because they were unfamiliar with the techniques of the physical therapist helping me to walk, John Silva. At Rancho Los Amigos, he learned that it was important to get patients walking as soon as possible, even if you have to help them to do it at first. I couldn't stand on my own yet, but by partially supporting my weight, he helped me to walk a few halting steps. Then, a few more. Eventually, I didn't need the support anymore.

If he hadn't done that, I would've been stuck in the nursing home, forcing me to lose my Kaiser coverage. I'm now starting to walk outside the house with the new Hurrycane Keith gave me for my birthday. I already walk around the house without a cane at all. I've been walking longer and longer distances during our rehab walks, too. I climbed a steep stairwell at the Santa Anita train depot museum at the Los Angeles County Arboretum just this past Sunday, on my birthday.

And, it's not like I've become death-defying. I'm still afraid of bad things happening to me, like the Sword of Damocles of my dermatomyositis-related increased cancer risk. But I now feel like I can cope with any challenge I should face.

So, while I'm not sure if I am beautiful, as the self-affirming chalk message asserts (I'll accept cute), I do feel strong.