The Himalayas: About As Close to Heaven As You Can Get

About six weeks after Charlie died, I had a mental breakdown. My nervous system was at level 0. I was having panic attacks often. I wasn't sleeping. I was swinging between intense anger, depression and grief. I felt like I was losing my marriage and felt guilt that all of this was impacting on my three year old daughter. I told my doctor I often felt like just running away and she advised that maybe I need to, safely. So, for a week I went out to my Dad's farm in Tantawangalo. For a few days on my own, and a few days with Gracie.

After brainstorming options to help me when I went back home, my dad, who had been to Nepal 10 years earlier, somewhat jokingly quipped, 'you know what you need? You need to go to Nepal.' I thought he was insane. But then months passed and the grief softened slightly or at least, wasn't present in an all-consuming, terrifying, insurmountable way. 'Let's do it.' I told him and we booked the trek.

In the weeks leading up, I didn't feel excited. I questioned why I didn't. I should be and yet I just felt flat still. I began making preparations but even en route I felt like I'd made the wrong decision. I missed Gracie terribly already and I had this all pervading feeling that something bad was going to happen to me or to her and the thought of being half a world away was terrifying.

The first morning that I stepped out onto the streets of the Thamel District in Kathmandu and nearly got taken out by a tooting road bike, I was quickly distracted. Kathmandu has this way of captivating your every sense. The tooting is incessant and there are street hawkers playing Himalayan music in an attempt to lure you in to buying their sarangi. The smell of incense and bike fumes and spices fill the air and sometimes, as you walk along the hot and dusty streets, the stench of rubbish. Lights zig zag between the roofs of the narrow lanes and tight little shops literally burst out onto the streets, their colourful wares demanding attention. Occasionally, you stumble across a shop, the polished glass shielding rows of buttery croissants and pain au chocolat and if you step in for a moment, the dingle of the bell above the door announcing your arrival, you'll be treated to the cool whirr of a ceiling fan, buttery flakes and rich chocolate and a moment of quiet before you step back out into the bustle and mayhem.

My first visit to Swayambhunath, or 'Monkey Temple,' was rushed but gave me a taste of this wildly different world that I didn't know existed. Swayambhunath is a collection of temples, monasteries and stupas at the top of a hill, the vistas offering 180 degree views over the smoggy bowl of Kathmandu. The gold facades of the stupa glint richly in the sunlight and monkeys scurry up, perch and hurriedly unwrap their stolen treats from unsuspecting tourists. Monks sit cross legged on the ground and Hindu ceremonies spill out of the temples. Red sindoor dusts statues of the deities and orange marigold petals offer their devotion. The intricacy of the architecture is incredible. Every edge, facade and trim is heavily ornamented. And the 2,5000 years of ancientness creeps into your bones and you can feel it in the flicker of the candles in the Buddhist Monastery and the reverberation of the monk's chant.

It was my first time also, witnessing a cremation of a human. The Hindus believe death is not something to be feared but an inherent part of life. Public cremations happen, on average 30 times a day, just in this one spot by the river, and many more over Nepal. The ceremony is rich in ritual and the ashes are released back into the water from whence life comes. Charlie was cremated and the day he was cremated, stands out as one of the hardest days following his death. To see cremation from a different perspective, as part of a soul's journey, left me feeling emotionally exhausted at the end of the day but unalterably changed.

The cultural chaos of Kathmandu surprised me with how fascinating such a vastly different culture and lifestyle would be. Originally though, what I had really come to Nepal for was to witness the mountains and feel the awe of standing amongst the clouds, as close to Charlie, who had seemingly disappeared into the aura of our atmosphere, as I could get. The mountains did not disappoint.

On the second day of the trek that we'd booked in to Annapurna Base Camp, I woke to find the clouds that had followed us up the valley the afternoon before had lifted. There was an intense stillness, as my head tipped backwards to get my first sight of one of the mountains up close. The soft flapping of the Nepalese flag was the only sound and the stark red contrasted heavily with the muted blues, pinks and greys of the mountain sunrise. Pretty much every time I stopped to take them in after that, I was filled with this intense emotion of absolute awe and bliss and sadness that Charlie would never be able to witness what this world has to offer. I was also acutely aware, that many people don't but just the fact that he would never have the chance to choose was what brought on the tears. It was just so beautiful.

I took 1,000 photos on that trek. Every time we rounded a corner in the trail or met a crest, I would be renewed with wonder. Every time the clouds came in or drifted on you were met with a different aspect altogether. And being amongst the clouds, surrounded by the majesty of these mountains that spired up 4km above us, was a feeling like no other. You couldn't help but feel the ancientness of the landscape that was continuously moving and shifting and yet immovable in its immensity.

At Annapurna Base Camp, 4100m above sea level, my dad and I told our guide about one of the main reasons for our trip; a spiritual recognition of life and death and Charlie. His reaction was one I will always hold close. A clear display of emotion, a quiet comfort, my grief was held, seen, recognised and treasured. He recognised the cycle of life in our story but also the immensity and complexity of that story. He asked if it would be ok, if together we built a memorial cairn in memory of Charlie, and for my dad, Grandma, above base camp.

And so after lunch, we wandered up to the edge of the rim with the Annapurna mastiff towering above and in the gap between the clouds coming and going, we all chipped away at slate and carefully constructed a cairn amongst others that were made in memory. We picked dried grasses and flowers and made little bouquets that we carefully and tentatively tucked in the gaps and purified the stone with water before standing back to see this physical structure at the base of unexplainable majesty.

To think of that structure standing, maybe withstanding snow fall for a little bit, maybe copping the wind, maybe witnessing the sunrise upon the mountain range before oneday crumbling into the glacial moraine with the rest of the landscape, a little token to Charlie, brings me such profound comfort, pain, stillness. It's a recognition that he is part of nature and our memories are part of this world.

Nepal left an indelible mark on my journey of grief this year and will most likely forever. It put things in perspective, arranged how life and death coexist in my mind and was the first time I had truly, for a period of time, spent doing something good for me this year. Being in the crisp mountain air, the physical challenge for my body, the opening awareness and the stillness in memory and love really gave something back to the body and mind that felt as if it had been emptying for a very long time.

In my first appointment with my 'Charlie' psychologist, in the early days after Charlie died, she explained the box and the ball analogy; that the grief is a ball and in the early days of grief, the box is very small and the pain hits a lot as the ball bounces around the very tiny box. The ball never changes size. Your grief always remains but the box, life, grows around it and the ball, as time goes on, hits the side less and less but is still just as painful when it does. It made sense but it didn't make sense until Nepal. I finally began to feel it for myself. Nepal blew that box so much bigger and made me realise that life can still be interesting, challenging, fascinating, beautiful.

I think I will always hold a particular memory of Nepal close to my heart. My dad and I standing in an amphitheatre of the Himalayas. The silvery mountains still, awaiting the afternoon cotton balls of cloud that are creeping up the valley. The crisp air fills our lungs and settles on our cheeks. I turn slowly about, my head tilted right back to take it all in. We are waiting for the colours of sunset. And as the sun begins to linger just above the horizon, the mountains glow and the sunlight reflects off the clouds that now linger directly across the valley from us, the tips of the mountains still proudly standing sentry to the scene. And I quietly exclaim, 'this is about as close to heaven as you can get.' And my dad replies, 'maybe it is heaven.'

And just maybe it is.