Rocco’s Birth Story

​On the morning of April 2nd, 2025 I’ll never forget hearing “Did they see this on the ultrasound?” as I laid on the operating table cut open, vulnerable, and anxious. I asked “See what?” The silence in the room was deafening, broken only for my sweet Rocco’s beautiful cries. 

Panic started to set in. My body felt hot and tingly. I started vomiting into a blue bag someone was holding up for me. They continued sewing me up. I looked at Mike. He looked pale. Like he was pretending to be calm. He went over to the corner of the OR to be with Rocco. I had so many questions, but I felt frozen. I remember repeating over and over in my head “Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.” I couldn’t move, couldn’t feel, couldn’t process. 

Finally, still being closed up, a nurse came to my side and said “Baby has a spot on his head. We’re going to take him to the NICU to have him looked at.” 

They flashed by me with Rocco in a little clear crib. They put a hat on him and moved him out so fast, that I really only saw one tiny little freckle on his cheek. Mike followed him. The rest is kind of a blur until I was brought back to recovery. 

Once in recovery, I felt like everything that just happened wasn’t real. Like I dreamt it all. By the grace of God, Rocco was stable so they brought him back to me so I could nurse him. My euphoric first nursing session and skin-to-skin was tainted. I was inundated with so many thoughts flooding my mind instead of being able to be in the moment, feeling my precious boy latch, feeling his strong heart beat against my own, and soaking in his dewy skin. It was all ruined for me. Instead of light and happiness in that moment, the room felt dark, sad, and scary. I remember not taking his little beanie hat off. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready to see the extent of everything. He was loosely swaddled so I could see little freckles covering his tiny arms and torso. I felt robbed. 

It was in recovery, that I recall looking at Mike and seeing him trying to be strong for us, but knowing he wanted to break down. His eyes were puffy, glazed with tears and I could sense his fear, but he appeared stoic. Same thing with my mom. Her eyes were watery. I could feel her trying to hold it together for me, for Rocco. I was so grateful they were there. 

As fast as my mind was going, I also felt numb. I remember feeling confused and just so devastated. I remember thinking “How did this happen? Why did this happen? What does this mean?” I was trying hard to stay calm while every fiber in my being wanted to lose all control and just scream. I was trying to make things “normal” by asking for some pictures. When I look back on those pictures now, I cry because all I see is pain.

It was also in the recovery room that I remember Mike telling me about the neonatologist, Dr. Bernstein, in the operating room. Dr Bernstein knew exactly what Rocco’s condition was. He pulled up pictures of babies with a congenital melanocytic nevus and started showing Mike right there in the OR. Come to later find out, with this condition being so rare, many doctors are not sure what it is upon delivery and many parents have been given an incorrect diagnosis or none at all. By God’s grace, Dr. Bernstein was there and knew exactly what we were dealing with so that all the care Rocco would need could be expedited and we had some answers from day one.

Next thing I know I’m in a room in the mother-baby unit, but with no baby. Rocco was in the NICU. My mom stayed with me, Mike stayed with Rocco. Our people started checking in on us. I didn’t know how to tell them that things weren’t okay and that we desperately needed prayers. Mother-baby nurses came in and out congratulating me. It felt wrong because I didn’t want to celebrate. I was scared. I couldn’t stop crying. I felt so hopeless. 

At some point, Mike sent me a picture of Rocco from the NICU. All Rocco had on was a diaper. No little beanie hat. This was the first time I saw the full extent of his nevus. My heart sank. It broke me that looking at my baby brought me worry, fear, and sadness instead of peace, joy, and excitement. I zoomed in on his face and thought he looked exactly like his big brother, Mikey. 

So much had happened that day. I was exhausted. I was flooded with emotions, hormones, and in physical pain from the C-Section. It felt like a storm. Then I was told Rocco needed to be transferred to a different hospital (AdventHealth Orlando) where there were more available resources and a higher level NICU. 

I remember nurse friends of mine who were working that day and my doctor coming in to check on me. That evening, a NICU nurse friend, Sarah,-who I actually met when my son Mikey was in the NICU- came to my room to check on me. She sat with me, talked with me, listened to me. Sarah’s 12 hour shift was over, but she told me she wasn’t leaving until Rocco was transported. I have so much appreciation for her. I felt so lucky to have people we knew looking out for him.

Rocco was transported first at around 10pm on the night of April 2nd. Mike followed him there. There was not an open bed for me so I stayed at AdventHealth Winter Park until one opened up. Those hours felt endless. I felt hopeless and helpless. I was trying everything to stay calm and reminding myself to put my trust in God. I was mentally, emotionally, and physically drained.

 I have a close friend who works for Advent Health, who I know had to have pulled some strings to get me a bed as quickly as possible. At 1am, only 3 hours after Rocco had been transported, they loaded me up in an ambulance and took me to Orlando. My mom was with me. I was shaking uncontrollably with a deep shiver in my bones. I prayed silently during the ambulance ride saying “Lord I believe. Help my unbelief.”

Once we got to the AdventHealth Orlando, the first thing I wanted to do was go to the NICU to see Rocco. I didn’t care what time it was. As my mom was pushing me in the wheelchair down the hall of the NICU, I knew exactly where Rocco was because I could hear what sounded like a literal bear coming from a little nook covered by a curtain. It was Mike snoring in a recliner while he slept next to Rocco’s isolette. It was the first time that day that I almost smiled. 

Rocco’s nurse introduced herself, Sydney. She updated me, then gently told me something I’ll never forget: She has CMN too. I remember thinking what are the odds that Rocco’s nurse also shares the rare disease that he has. I remember feeling so comforted and instantly connected with Sydney. I felt so hopeful to see Sydney standing before me, so happy, successful, pregnant with a baby of her own. I know meeting Sydney that night was God “winking” at me, giving me a sign of hope and reassurance that Rocco would be okay. Meeting Sydney was the first glimmer of light I remember feeling since Rocco had been born. I requested to have Sydney as Rocco’s nurse for the rest of his stay if she was working. 

Rocco had other unbelievably amazing nurses during his 7 day NICU stay. The kinds of nurses we will never forget. The kinds of nurses that literally carried us through some of our darkest days. Nurse Christina, Nurse April, Nurse Jordan, Nurse Maddie. They were our angels.

On the morning of Rocco’s second day of life, during NICU rounds, we were told by a neonatologist that Rocco would need an MRI of his brain and spine to check for internal involvement. Wait what? These spots can also be on his brain? His spine? That’s a thing? It’s not just cosmetic? My mind was all over the place. I was scared to Google anything. I didn’t want to know. I felt terrified.

Because Rocco did not stay still for an MRI, they needed to sedate him. Even with sedation, he didn’t stay still, so they needed to use a stronger sedative. It took 3 times (and 2 days) to get clear images. I remember begging all of my friends and family to pray for favorable results. 

The day after his MRI, on April 6th, during NICU rounds, a pediatric neurologist confirmed Rocco has multiple lesions on his brain and spinal cord. I immediately started dry heaving and shaking uncontrollably. Mike passed me a trash can. I remember telling myself to pull it together. I was trying to take deep breaths. I was mad that I was having a visceral reaction because I wanted to be strong in that moment. I wanted to be alert and ready to ask questions about next steps, the future, his prognosis. I felt weak. Rocco was officially diagnosed with Neurocutaneous Melanocytosis- which can be symptomatic or asymptomatic. Rocco is asymptomatic and I pray every night that he always will be. 

I remember later that day Nurse Christina telling me in her thick accent “This baby is strong. This baby is normal.” She told me she just felt that he was going to be just fine despite any diagnoses. I clung to those words. 

During Rocco’s NICU stay we had Mikey come and visit him a few times. He was so excited to meet his little brother. My mind was racing with thoughts— one of which being how we would describe Rocco’s nevus to Mikey and why it’s there. I felt like “birthmark” was too much of an abstract concept for a 2 year old. I came up with the idea of comparing it to a big freckle because I knew Mikey knows what a freckle is because he has one that he likes to show us. 

Mikey never asked. He didn’t see anything unusual, he just saw his baby brother. The innocence of a child is truly humbling. It took Mikey 6 months to ask “what’s that?” pointing to the tiny freckle on Rocco’s cheek. I thought to myself “wow- Rocco has this giant birthmark, but all Mikey is asking about is this little freckle on his cheek.” I overestimated a two year old. When Mikey finally did ask, I remember it so clearly. But that’s a story for another time. And it’s a sweet one. Mikey’s reaction (or lack there of) taught me something profound- children don’t see what we fear, they just see love. 

On April 9th, after 7 days in the NICU Rocco was discharged. They discharged him with a list of follow up appointments with numerous different specialists. Although he was going home, I felt uneasy. I felt a heaviness and dread about the road ahead. I was trying to be hopeful, but it was hard. I didn’t feel prepared. I was so worried about everything. I didn’t know how I was going to do everything. 

But something in me has changed since Rocco’s birth. Not initially, but it has over time. I’ve become an advocate. I’ve found a strength from deep within me that I know can only come from God. Just like the saying goes— God doesn’t call the qualified, He qualifies the called.

As someone with anxiety, the “unknown” and the “what ifs” have always been my hardest battle. Rocco has taught me to embrace the unknown. I’m learning to challenge the negative “what ifs” with positive ones. Rocco is teaching me to cherish each moment as it comes. Soak it all in. Stay present. And to truly trust in God. I don’t know what the future holds, no one does. But I do know this: God is with us in it all. He goes before us, walks beside us, and carries us when we feel too weak to take another step. I’ve seen Christ in the people He’s placed in our path, in the strength we didn’t know we had, and in the quiet moments of peace that didn’t make sense, but came anyway.

Rocco is not defined by a diagnosis. He is full of life, purpose, personality, and already changing us in the most beautiful ways.

I am so unbelievably proud to be his mom. Proud of his strength. Proud of his story. Proud that God chose me to walk this life with him.

I have faith that God is writing a story greater than I can see. Faith that there is goodness ahead. And faith that Rocco’s life will be filled with joy, strength, and purpose.

We are not walking this road alone. 

“For it was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.”-Psalm 139:13-14