Nea Fane – Un Biet Român Pripășit în America / A Hapless Romanian Stuck in The US

Day after day, I realize that I’m not really living. I barely exist.

When I lost my job, people rushed in with comforting phrases: “It’s a blessing in disguise.” “Something better will come.”“Everything happens for a reason.” (I heard that one before three years ago – the words are still hollow).

And none of them came with health insurance.

For someone with medical issues, losing coverage isn’t an inconvenience, it’s a quiet emergency. Most of my medications are affordable through Amazon Pharmacy. One isn’t. My weight-loss injection costs $2,500 a month. Without it, I gained 20 pounds almost instantly. No drama, no slow transition, just cause and effect.

Then there were my doctors. None of them were included in the Marketplace plan we could afford, but I knew that going in. Still, knowing doesn’t make it easier. The plan that covered them all was simply out of reach. Healthcare, it turns out, is a luxury item in the United States.

Even on unemployment, I am still considered “the provider,” so I started applying for jobs. No pressure.

Companies research. Job coaches. Every day, I sent out résumés. Some with recommendations. Some without. All of them disappear into some trackless black hole, the place where applications go to die. A black hole with an email address.
For a moment, there was hope: an interview, a real conversation, a glimpse of normal life returning. Then the position was “canceled,” or so I was told. Maybe they already had their chosen candidate. Maybe I was just there to fill a chair and justify the process. Either way, hope exited the building politely and without explanation.

Somewhere along the way, the gym disappeared from my routine. “You have to do it for yourself,” people said. They meant well. They always do. But motivation doesn’t survive long in a life built around survival. When every day is about managing loss, cost, and uncertainty, self-improvement feels like a luxury. Or a hobby.

And then there are my dogs.
Two four-legged, all-love furry babies to whom I owe more than I can ever properly measure, and certainly more than I will ever understand. They have stayed. They have loved. They have never asked for explanations.

Lately, I haven’t been walking them in the mornings the way I used to. I find reasons. Darkness. Weather. Fatigue. “Tomorrow.”
Excuses dressed up in more acceptable costumes.
So this is my apology.
I’m sorry.
If not for me, then at least for you. I will try to do better. When I’ll hear again “go walk the dogs in the morning” and “go swim in the afternoon,” I will at least do the morning walk.

And then there is Cosmin.

As if anything else could compete with that.

I don’t go to the cemetery every day anymore. Now it’s more like twice a week. Grief evolves, it doesn’t fade. It simply changes shape, a spectre that grovels in the undergrowth.

When I’m home, even after more than three years, part of me still waits for him. Some irrational corner of my mind keeps the door unlocked, just in case.

At the cemetery, illusion disappears. The monument is solid, permanent and undeniable.

I stand there and feel myself shrink.

I die a little, again. And again.

And I ask the same question I’ve been asking for years now: “What’s the point?”

Not in a dramatic way, not as a cry for help, just as a quiet, honest inventory of a life that feels paused, reduced, narrowed to essentials.

Breathing.
Paying bills.
Applying for jobs.
Managing medication.
Surviving.

….

Not living. Not writing. Not talking.

Barely existing.