Diagnosis: Anxiety attack

"What was happening to me?' I had completely lost control, repeating over and over, "I just don't know what to do." I broke down in tears, then sobs; sobs that ran their limit, then turned into spastic leg jerks. Frightened, I called my husband and asked him to sit on my legs to stop the flailing. Desperate for relief, all I could think of was a swig of scotch. This had cured a shock from fright forty or so years ago, so I hoped it would do its magic again. Slowly, it did.

Time was running short and we had no answer. We live in a 65+ senior apartment complex. It has two buildings, one of which has the activity center, the dining room, office manager and Visiting Nurse station. We live in the other, separated by a slanted, icy driveway that became impassable for me in winter. I was not alone in my frustration.

We decided to take action. I have never accepted defeat without giving my all trying to find a solution. "Cool, dispassionate thinker" one of my early teachers had commented on a report card. So where do we start?

First, we talked to the manager, but were told there are no available "market rate" apartments in the main building. Then we hit the Internet, looking locally for affordable housing. Affordable was important as our assets do have a limit and we wanted to be some place where we could remain if and when one of us died and the other couldn't afford to stay.

We discovered we're in a hole - a deep, unrelenting hole. All affordable housing complexes have maximum income/asset limits governed by the averages in any particular location. Most have some "market rate" apartments for people like us who exceed the annual income limit, but fall within the maximum asset limit. These limits are based on a couple's combined gross (not net) annual income plus all assets (minus a car and house). Medical expenses do not figure in this equation.

To illustrate the idiocy of this policy, I could come within the limit if I were to cash in my Roth IRAs and rush to my Maserati dealer. I do think they have a clause preventing this though.

At this point, suffice it to say that's where we are. I'll discuss that sore spot another day. We couldn't get an affordable apartment because of too much money, and we couldn't get a decent one on the regular real estate market because we didn't have enough money to qualify. By "decent" I mean one that would afford handicap provisions, as my post-polio is advancing with age.

Luck was with us. The manager called to say she had the perfect apartment for us in the main building. We rushed over to find she was right: Perfect. We took the papers home and started to fill them out. Crash! When we got to income, we were torpedoed again and there was no way out. The combination of my husband's pension (in 1974 dollars, when he retired the first of many times), and our Social Security checks totaled $200 over the annual limit! She could do nothing as fudging it risked the tax status of the building's owners. We could do nothing as you can't request a lower pension or SS payment.

Someone suggested getting a divorce. Either of us could qualify individually. I could take the apartment and my husband could take the second bedroom (nominally) to be my "caregiver", which in reality, he is.  Great idea, but a divorce in Vermont takes six months and the apartment would be gone by then.

I called every agency I could think of, including the ACLU as a last resort. No answers anywhere! And that's when the s... hit the fan. A crude, but apt phrase. Please forgive me.

Not knowing what was happening to me mentally, I called my doctor and was squeezed in that afternoon. Dear man, he patiently asked what was happening in "my world" - all the while ensuring me my reactions were quite normal. He considered several medications, then settled on one I could try, but with caveats. I fear pills more than I fear homelessness, but took the Rx.

I took one dose, then read the warnings. That was enough, no more pills. I was able to pull myself together, but the problem remained. The anxiety attacks subsided for a few days, but would reappear every time I tried to find a home.

We will be moving in two weeks. We can't afford the new place for long, but by that time we will have spent the Roth IRAs that have prevented us from getting an affordable apartment. We have found a different place where we can go then. There is an eighteen month waiting list, so that should be just about right...if we live that long.

I no longer have anxiety attacks. What will be, will be. I regret that my diligence in saving money for my old age was counterproductive. All it's done is put us into this ridiculous hole: too rich to be poor and too poor to be rich. But I must say, "Life has been a grand ride."

Moral: If you're going to be rich, be really rich.