But that was. .
. . a while ago.
Too long, thought Telma.
Time for a comeback.
Anyway — what was good for Telma, was good for kancer.
. .
A nurse told her that Biggie Brainard (pushing 13, real name, Colt Brainard III) (5'3"/165 lbs) happened to be “at hospital” today, and would she like to meet him? (Well, duh.) Biggie’s dad, Bertram Brainard, was an inventor who disappeared from public view after fully endowing construction of the oink-oink building 10 years back.
Now this was going to be really something! Telma had never given much thought to the Brainards, & with this development, was, well, nearly ashamed at having neglected to ever have inquired after her benefactors. Until now, they had no flesh at all, flat and bloodless as the walls of the edifice on which their name was engraved. Telma immediately asked where she might find Mr. Biggie Brainard, & the nurse replied that he happened to be in the basement getting an MRI, or trying to anyway. She explained that he was mortally terrified of the hellaciously noisy apparatus that, to his mind (his mind being the very thing the machine was attempting to observe, record, interpret, & diagnose), swallowed a person prematurely, like an overeager coffin.
Biggie lived with his older brother Brando on a vast estate in Bel-Air. The brother, his de facto guardian, lately noticed that Biggie was having subtle cognitive difficulties, the most pronounced being in the realm of short-term memory. He hadn’t struck his head on anything (as far as anyone knew) & the doctors had already ruled out diabetes. Now, they wanted to take a look at the brain.
All this was transmitted to the Mayor, who of course enjoyed a privileged standing when it came to hospital staff sharing certain confidentialities. Once she got the brainard tumor joke out of her system, she was on her merry way.
She was introduced to Camino (nanny/caregiver) & then Biggie (overweight but not yet morbidly obese, though heading for it) in a doctor’s lounge. The nurses’ 
s broke in unison when they saw how sweet the two looked together — Telma’s fearless, charismatic, firecracker Laurel to his poignantly fearful, socially awkward, shrinking-violet Hardy. Having been briefed on Biggie’s MRI jitters, she lost no time suggesting they go for yogurt in the “café.”
The nurses shook their heads in respect.
The Mayor was alarmingly proactive.
That’s our girl.
. .
— So did they say if you can have kids?
— Probably. I had surgery but I didn’t have any chemo.
— Radiation?
— Nuh-uh. Christina Applegate had what I had & she had a baby. I met her when we were in Washington. The doctors said one day I might have to have my ovaries taken out but I can still carry. Christina might have to have hers out too.
— What kind of surgery. Did you have.
— A mastectomy.
— Oh. (Pause) I saw this little girl on the Ellen show. She’s like four years — old & got it too. Breast cancer.
— She was on Ellen?
— I didn’t see it but my brother sent me a link. He thought it would make a good telemovie.
— She’s from Canada. But she’s not really a survivor.
— I didn’t even think four year old girls had breasts.
— I mean, you have to be kancerfree for at least three years before you can be called a survivor.
— But I mean if you’re still alive after your surgery or your chemo & whatever, doesn’t that make you a survivor?
— Technically. In layman’s terms. But if someone has something cut out & then it never spreads anywhere else — like me, so far — it takes three years before you’re allowed to say you’re kancerfree. The rule is, you have to be kancerfree for three years before you’re allowed to call yourself a survivor, & five years before you’re allowed to say you’re cured.
— Allowed?
— Those are the cancer organization rules, & they’re very strict. You can’t just go and change them. It’s like the Olympics. And that girl won’t know for three years. I mean, I hope she is—a survivor. That would be so rad. She’s already a hero. She’s got swag.
— Swag? What is that?
— That she’s cool. But right now she’s just a kid with kancer.
— Yeah I guess.
— So where do you go to school?
— At home.
— At home?
— I have a tutor.
— That is hella tight.
— It’s OK.
— I want your life! So what else?
— What else?
— Like, about your parents. Doesn’t your mom come to the hospital when you have tests?
— She doesn’t really live with us.
— Now I know I want your life! Where does she live?
— London. Near London, I think. And Paris. Her business takes her away a lot.
— What’s her business?
— I don’t know.
— What about your dad?
— He lives at home. We live with him. My brother and me.
— Your father paid for this whole building?
— Yeah.
— He must be a billionaire.
— I guess.
— What does he do?
— Invents ideas.
— Coolio. So what do you do?
— What do I do?
— For fun?
— Well I help my brother.
— How.
— With ideas.
— For what?
— Movies and television.
— You invent ideas?
— I guess.
— Rad! What kind.
— My brother has a production company? And I come up with ideas? For projects.
— That’s so awesome! What kind of ideas?
— Did you see Turndown Service?
—The movie?
— With Zach Galifianakis and Tosh? And Kristen Wiig?
— I almost saw it. Is it on Netflix?
— Only Apple TV.
— What’s it about again?
— These people own a fancy hotel? That’s Tosh & his wife, Kristen Wiig. His wife in the movie. But they’re going bankrupt? And they have this son who’s a loser, who they never respected? That’s Zach Galifianakis. And when he tells them he’s going to save the hotel for them they just laugh. So he starts this service where people pay him to break up with their girlfriends. Instead of breaking up by texting. I mean, he has to find the girls then break up with them face-to-face. But I mean, the girls who are getting dumped are face-to-face with him, not with the guys who are dumping them.