GUEST COLUMNIST: Unexpected change is difficult to accept

My grandparents sold their house this week. Granny and Grandad live on the outskirts of Dublin, Ireland, in an area where the houses don't have numbers, only names inscribed on the gates. Rockhurst had been their home for almost 30 years. Rockhurst is a large one-story house with shiny hardwood floors and rooms a few steps above or below each other. Oil paintings, Waterford crystal and large bookshelves decorate the house. Two large mosaics frame the entryway, given to my grandfather when he retired. The house always held a certain mystery for me. It wasn't like anything I'd seen before or since. As a little girl, visiting was always both exciting and frightening. I loved looking at the old family photos, the toys and books my dad used to own, but these interests were tinged with the worry that I might break an ornament or play with something I shouldn't. I was always slightly on edge throughout my visits. While I'm not frightened to visit Rockhurst anymore, the unusual house that my grandfather renovated and my grandmother decorated still excites me. And whenever I think of my extended family, I see them there. We have a whole series of group photos taken at Rockhurst, at passing glance very similar, but slightly changed from year to year by my brother's growth spurt or my cousin's new short hair. As my grandparents grew older, their isolated country house proved to be a mixed blessing. Rockhurst has been robbed countless times -- almost all of my grandmother's jewelry has been taken. Once, when I was seven or eight, the house was broken into while my mother and I sat alone in the back garden. My grandparent's response to these robberies was to install a home alarm. It terrifies me, but it hasn't prevented further robberies. That wasn't enough to convince my grandparents to sell the house that had served for years as a backdrop to family gatherings. But now, too many years have passed and my Granny and Grandad cannot stay in their home for much longer. Grandad has been suffering from Alzheimer's disease for years. The last time I saw him, he was in the early stages of the disease. We didn't know that he had Alzheimer's at the time. We just thought he was getting old. Grandad always wanted to be in control of things. For a while, he kept trying to take charge of situations, but eventually he didn't really know what was going on. Now, he's grown child-like and docile. He recently was moved into a new home in which he can receive the constant care and attention he needs. I haven't seen my Grandad for three years. One of the greatest tragedies of immigrating is the helplessness you feel when situations like this arise thousands of miles away. There is virtually nothing I can do. I can't even see what is happening first hand. I can only imagine. I keep trying to picture him in a nursing home and failing. In my eyes he sits in his armchair by the window sternly reading the newspaper, with Granny coming in and out offering him cups of tea. The last time I saw Grandad was in a coffee shop in Dublin. I was in the city for a week with my best friend and I told my grandparents we just couldn't make it out to Rockhurst to have dinner with them. I feel guilty every time I think of it. But more than guilt, I feel regret. I thought of Rockhurst as a constant. "I'll do that some other time," I said to myself, and three years later I'll never be able to recapture the opportunity. Who knows when I'll be in Ireland again or what will have happened by then? I've been spoiled, really. All four of my grandparents are alive and despite the distance between us, I have been able to spend time with all of them. I realize how lucky I am. I just wish I could have said that to Grandad the last time I saw him sitting in his chair.

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