A Second Reunion for Marcellus and Natalie
The Ronald McDonald Family Room at Elmhurst Hospital hosted its second-ever NiCU reunion in the fall of 2025 welcoming back all the graduated little ones with their families who had spent time in the Family Room since its opening in 2023. It was louder, funnier, and far more mobile than the first. Toddlers toddled. Parents laughed with a kind of relief that only comes after surviving something you once thought might break you.
And right in the middle of it all was Marcellus climbing, exploring, carrying 18-wheeler toy trucks bigger than himself from one end of the Family Room to the other while his mother, Natalie, told stories that moved seamlessly between humor, honesty, and hard-earned wisdom.
This was not a return to the NICU as it once was. This was a return as alumni. As proof. As living evidence that family centered care from a Ronald McDonald Family Room does not end when a baby leaves the hospital—it echoes forward, shaping childhoods, families, and futures.
The Family Room, once a place to breathe between impossible decisions, had become a place to celebrate growth and how far everyone had come in just two short years.
Marcellus Under the Microscope
Marcellus was born at 26 weeks and four days. His entry into the world was sudden and fragile, the kind that reroutes a family’s entire understanding of time. His earliest months were spent in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit at NYC Health + Hospitals/Elmhurst, surrounded by machines that beeped constantly and conversations filled with hospital jargon no parent expects to speak fluently.
Natalie remembers those days as relentless. Decision after decision. Information layered on top of fear. Her son would eventually undergo four surgeries, with one still pending. He faced intestinal complications that required specialized intervention and transfer to Mount Sinai Hospital, where surgeons worked quickly once the problem was identified.
In the middle of that medical intensity, the Ronald McDonald Family Room became something essential. Not an escape from reality, but a way to survive it.
The Space Between Decisions
When Natalie talks about the Family Room, she doesn’t start with snacks or laundry machines—though both mattered deeply. She talks about permission. Permission to step away for a moment without stepping away from her son.
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“It was a place that I couldn't just breathe for a second, you know what I mean, or do my laundry when it gets out of control, or just somebody to talk to that's an adult that's not telling you something different about your son that's gonna happen, you know.”
In the NICU, every hour carries weight. Parents are asked to absorb medical language, weigh risks, and advocate fiercely, often while running on little sleep and less food. The Family Room exists to meet those realities with holistic care—addressing not only the needs of pediatric patients, but also the social determinants of health that affect how families cope, decide, and endure.
Natalie describes the mental load clearly: “It was a hard part here when we didn't know what was going on with him, right? And then we knew what was going on with him.” That shift—from uncertainty to clarity came fast, and the Family Room staff responded just as quickly.
She recalls telling the team she was leaving to fight for her son’s next step. By midday, Marcellus was on his way for surgery. Before he even arrived at the next hospital, a care package was waiting. Personalized items. Thoughtful details. Tangible proof that someone was paying attention.
Kindness That Shows Up
The Family Room is powered by people. Natalie names them easily—Jen and Feng—because you do not forget the people who feed you when you forget to eat, who greet you when you are exhausted, who remember your child’s name.
“You know, pure kindness,” she says. “As a parent, you just forget to do those things because you're so concerned about what's going on with your son, to even just eat, you know, because you don't want to miss a second.”
That kind of kindness is not accidental. It is built into the mission of Ronald McDonald House New York and its Family Rooms across the city—programs designed to reduce health disparities by supporting families where medical crises and everyday life collide. Whether a family’s child is being treated at Elmhurst, Montefiore, or another partner hospital, the model remains the same: keep families close, supported, and strong enough to advocate.
From Survival to Routine
Fast forward to the Family Room at Elmhurst Hospital’s 2nd NICU reunion ever, and Marcellus is no longer a baby defined by wires and worry. He is a toddler defined by motion.
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“He's a very outdoorsy person,” Natalie says. “Likes to climb.”
His weeks are structured but full. Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays are therapy days—Physical therapy (PT), Sensory Integration (SI) therapy, speech therapy, food therapy. Early intervention began as soon as they left the hospital. Wednesdays are for the city.
“Wednesday is usually like our go out day, because you get a lot of free stuff in the city on Wednesdays.”
Botanical gardens. Pools. Water parks. Cousins. Sprinklers. Life.
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Marcellus walked on January 1st, right on his own timeline. Natalie remembers waiting, wondering, and then watching it simply happen. He communicates in a mix of sounds, signs, and determination. He knows what he wants. He makes sure everyone else does too.
“He gives you, like, the stiff body, you know, saying he's like, tough stuff,” she laughs. “But he's very affectionate when he does want to go down.”
Humor as Healing
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Natalie tells stories the way parents who have been through the NICU often do—with humor sharpened by experience. There is the butterfly stitch from a cousin mishap. The beach trip where Marcellus stood on a chair for four hours to avoid sand. The water park where clothing became optional.
“He runs around butt naked, just in his diaper,” she says, without apology. “Once he's comfortable, he's out.”
These stories are funny because they are ordinary. And they matter because there was a time when ordinary felt out of reach.
Parenting After the NICU
Natalie does not romanticize the journey. She talks openly about how hard it was—and still can be—to let go, to trust others with her son’s care.
“I've one time left him in a daycare for an hour, and I cried the whole time,” she admits.
That vigilance is common among parents of pediatric patients who spent time in intensive care. The NICU teaches you to watch closely, to question everything, and to learn the language of medicine because your child’s life depends on it.
By the time Natalie left Elmhurst, she knew the lingo well enough that someone asked if she was a nurse.
“You become so, you know...” she says, pausing.
The sentence doesn’t need finishing.
The Family Room helped her protect that clarity. It gave her space to rest without disengaging, to recharge without disconnecting—so she could return to her son informed, present, and ready.
A Mother Who Found Her Center
Watch this quick quote from Natalie!
Before Marcellus, Natalie had accomplished much. A successful career. Travel. Big milestones. But something was missing.
“I always felt like an emptiness,” she says. “And I can honestly say, whenever anybody says to me, Oh, I'll take him to take a break. I don't need a break. I've been waiting for this moment my whole life. My whole life.”
Marcellus goes everywhere with her. He has already traveled internationally. He is her constant companion, her motivation, her ride or die, her clarity.
“That's my homie,” she says, smiling.
The language is casual. The meaning is not.
Why the Family Room Still Matters
At the reunion, Natalie watched Marcellus play in the same Family Room that once held her up on her hardest days. The space had not changed—but everything else had.
Marcellus and /Natalie at their 1st NICU Reunion at the Ronald McDonald Family Room
She explains what the Family Room provides in a way that captures its essence better than any brochure ever could.
“What the Ronald McDonald House provides for you is a minute to think.”
A minute to eat. A minute to breathe. A minute to remember that caring for yourself is part of caring for your child.
“If you're not doing it for yourself, you're not fully there to do it for your child,” she says.
That philosophy is central to family centered care and health equity. Families cannot advocate effectively when they are depleted. Children cannot thrive when their caregivers are overwhelmed. The Family Room exists to interrupt that cycle—to offer practical help and emotional support in equal measure.
Community That Extends Beyond the Hospital
The reunion also reminded Natalie of the relationships formed during those early days. Other NICU moms. Shared waiting rooms. Shared fear. Shared relief.
Those connections lasted. They became friendships. Support systems. A reminder that no family navigates pediatric cancer, premature birth, or complex medical needs alone.
The Ronald McDonald Family Room is often where those connections begin. It is where parents realize they are not the only ones living hour to hour, decision to decision.
Looking Forward, Together
Marcellus will start 3K soon. He continues therapy. He continues growing—strong, curious, and unapologetically himself. There is still one surgery ahead, but it no longer defines the story. It is part of it.
Natalie continues building a life that reflects what matters most to her now—her son, her family, and work that aligns with care and purpose.
The Family Room continues to be a part of that story. Not as a chapter left behind, but as a foundation that made everything else possible.
How You Can Help More Families Like Natalie and Marcellus
Every day, families arrive at hospitals like Elmhurst facing the unthinkable. They sit beside incubators. They learn new words they never wanted to know. They make decisions no parent should have to make alone.
The Ronald McDonald Family Room exists so those families do not have to do it alone.
Support for the Family Room helps ensure that more parents have a place to breathe, eat, rest, and think—so they can return to their child with strength and clarity.
Your support helps more kids like Marcellus and more moms like Natalie survive the NICU and come back one day for reunions filled with laughter instead of fear.
Because sometimes, what a family needs most is not another machine or monitor—but a room that reminds them they matter too.
