Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Hope Anne Catricala
Catricala, Hope Anne COHOES Hope Anne Catricala, native of Watervliet, died Tuesday, May 19, 2009 at the age of 60 in her home in Cohoes after a long battle with cancer.
She was the daughter of the late Fredrick Russell and Helen Duchene, and of her late adoptive parents, Vincent James Sr. and Eleanor G. (Cramer) Catricala. Survived by brother, John Catricala; sister, Eleanor (Catricala) Lampkin; stepbrother, Ralph Duddley; stepsister, Theresa Birch; and several nieces and nephews.
Other close family and friends include Clement and Alice Turgeon, Donna Turgeon, Ben, Nancy, Benjamin and Leah Fronczek, Matthew and Hannah Watermann and family, Ellen and Tom Sage, Mary Gemma, and Dawn Cary.
Hope was a member of Holy Trinity Parish, Cohoes, where she was a member of the Ladies of Saint Anne Society, a RCIA team member, a Eucharist minister, usher, and team member of the Liturgical Planning group.
Hope's life consisted of working as a life guard at the Watervliet City Pool, various clerk jobs, the NYS Museum and the NYS Transportation Department.
She was the president of the NENY Lupus Foundation in Albany, original founder of the Adoptee Political Action Coalition (APAC) and the NY Statewide Adoption Reform (NYSAR), and a member of the New York Adoption group. She fought for 17 years to pass legislation of the Bill of Adoptee Rights before both the Assembly and the Senate in Albany, N.Y.
She was a lover of animals and spent time volunteering at the Mohawk Hudson Animal Shelter. She was the recipient of the J.C. Penny Golden Rule Award and the Lupus Foundation of America Fleur-de-lis Award for her outstanding service to the community.
Special thanks to Dr. Duncan Savage, Dr. Nina Wu, the Community Hospice of Rensselaer and any of my angels: Ellen, Mary Ann, Hannah, Joan, Kathy, and Phyllis.
Calling hours will be held Friday from 4 to 7 p.m. at the Catricala Funeral Home Inc., 1597 Rte. 9, Clifton Park with a funeral Mass Saturday at 9 a.m. in the Holy Trinity Parish Church, Vliet Blvd, Cohoes. Burial will take place in St. Joseph's Cemetery in Waterford.
In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to the Holy Trinity Parish, 122 Vliet Blvd., Cohoes, NY 12047; the NENY Lupus Foundation, 790 Watervliet Shaker Rd., Latham, NY 12110; and the Mohawk & Hudson River Humane Society, 3 Oakland Ave., Menands, NY 12204.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Allergic to adoption
I had a memory today reading 'Adoptees as Mothers' at 73Adoptee this morning. Actually I had lots of memories, many unpleasant, remembering a lot of how terrified I was that I would lose my son when he was little. Even though he's grown now, I still worry, all the time. And why wouldn't I? He's the only real relative I have who talks to me.
What a burden that must be: To be someone's only relative they've ever met in their entire life.
The worst memory though was something I witnessed that was so disturbing to me that even after all this time, I can't shake it off.
There's an adoptee I know who is very happy with being adopted. She says she's never wanted to search and couldn't be more grateful with the privileged upper class life she was gifted into.
Although she's very interested in my adoption she rarely speaks about hers, and when she does -- she cuts herself off and changes the topic.
We were talking one day in her kitchen about our children and how fiercely we love them, how being a mother is the most incredible love there is. She was talking about how she loves her children more than anyone else on earth as she stood over the sink washing and peeling potatoes.
I made mention in passing that her children were the first and only people she knew who were related to her. She said nothing after that, which wasn't surprising. What was surprising was the fact that she stopped moving. She just stood there at the sink, the water running, a potato in one hand and a knife in the other, standing still as a statue, staring at nothing, lost tumbling down her own soul.
She was wearing a lovely low-cut blouse that showed off her equally lovely cleavage quite nicely. And as she stood there in silence, quite un-lovely hives started to form on her breasts. They made their way up her chest to her throat. As they started to develop on her jawline she finally spoke, only to say she was going to get some Benadryl and change her shirt.
She was quite miserable for the remainder of the evening.
That was the last time I made any mention of adoption to her. It's something I go out of my way not speak of in her presence. I'm very afraid her allergy to adoption may do her in some day, and I worry about her all, all, all the time.
The pissed off, ungrateful, raging, questioning ones like me... I think we're the lucky ones. At least we can talk about it and not have to put on a turtleneck.
What a burden that must be: To be someone's only relative they've ever met in their entire life.
The worst memory though was something I witnessed that was so disturbing to me that even after all this time, I can't shake it off.
There's an adoptee I know who is very happy with being adopted. She says she's never wanted to search and couldn't be more grateful with the privileged upper class life she was gifted into.
Although she's very interested in my adoption she rarely speaks about hers, and when she does -- she cuts herself off and changes the topic.
We were talking one day in her kitchen about our children and how fiercely we love them, how being a mother is the most incredible love there is. She was talking about how she loves her children more than anyone else on earth as she stood over the sink washing and peeling potatoes.
I made mention in passing that her children were the first and only people she knew who were related to her. She said nothing after that, which wasn't surprising. What was surprising was the fact that she stopped moving. She just stood there at the sink, the water running, a potato in one hand and a knife in the other, standing still as a statue, staring at nothing, lost tumbling down her own soul.
She was wearing a lovely low-cut blouse that showed off her equally lovely cleavage quite nicely. And as she stood there in silence, quite un-lovely hives started to form on her breasts. They made their way up her chest to her throat. As they started to develop on her jawline she finally spoke, only to say she was going to get some Benadryl and change her shirt.
She was quite miserable for the remainder of the evening.
That was the last time I made any mention of adoption to her. It's something I go out of my way not speak of in her presence. I'm very afraid her allergy to adoption may do her in some day, and I worry about her all, all, all the time.
The pissed off, ungrateful, raging, questioning ones like me... I think we're the lucky ones. At least we can talk about it and not have to put on a turtleneck.
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