The Cure Through the Ear: Beethoven Defying Science

PART 1

On the brink of existence, where science faced the abyss of mortality, Dr. Henrique Tavares, oncologist, found himself daily confronted not only with the disease but with the complex tapestry of the human soul. His days were a macabre dance between the promise of life and the shadow of finitude, a stage where hope and despair fought relentlessly. At times, this hope manifested in such unusual forms that it not only challenged medical logic but the very sanity of the man of science.

It was on a foggy morning that he looked at Dona Marlene, 68, whose recent diagnosis of breast cancer hung in the air like a sentence. She, with the dignity of someone who had unraveled a cosmic secret, adjusted her glasses on the tip of her nose and repeated, with a conviction almost prophetic:

— I don't need chemotherapy, doctor. I'll treat myself with Beethoven.

The silence that followed in the office was filled only by the discreet hum of medical equipment, an ironic counterpoint to the boldness of that statement. Dr. Tavares blinked, his surgeon and researcher mind trying to process the anomaly.

— With... Beethoven? — his voice came out in a thread, incredulity bordering on exhaustion.

— The Ninth Symphony! — Dona Marlene declared, a feverish glow in her eyes. — I saw it on Facebook. It kills 20% of cancer cells. Brazilian scientists proved it! — And, with the haste of an alchemist about to reveal gold, she pulled out her phone from her bag, the screen displaying a blurry image of a laboratory. — Look here, doctor. There’s even a photo!

Tavares felt a sharp pain in his temple, a premonition of the long day ahead. With every fiber of his being, he wished the cure were as simple, as ethereal as the melody. But reality was a sharp scalpel, a calculated poison.

— Dona Marlene, do you understand that...

— My grandson already downloaded it on Spotify. I'll listen three times a day. If it kills 20% each time, in five days I’ll be cured! — Dona Marlene's simplistic math was a shield against fear, an illusion built with the fervor of faith. Her satisfaction with her own logic was almost childish, her quick fingers counting the days until supposed redemption.

— Unfortunately, human biology is more complex than that. The mechanisms...

— And look — she interrupted him, her voice vibrating with enthusiasm, ignoring the dissonance of reason — if the Ninth doesn’t work, there's also the Fifth! And some guy named Ligeti. I’ve never heard of him, but if it’s on the internet, it must be good!

— Dona Marlene, this is a misunderstanding. Someone must have confused "chemo" with "five." The Fifth Symphony is a masterpiece, yes, but it doesn’t cure cancer!

Marlene crossed her arms, her frail body contrasting with the strength of her conviction:

— Doctor, you live by numbers, but I live by stories. Beethoven was deaf and composed symphonies that shake the world. If he overcame silence, why can’t I overcome this with his music? Life is not just a body; it’s soul, it’s vibration. What is cancer but a dissonant note in the great orchestra of existence?

That blind optimism, that surrender to a comforting pseudoscience, was a poison disguised as nectar, eroding the precious time that science still had to offer. Despair, disguised as easy hope, was the most insidious enemy. The human condition, after all, was a precarious dance on the razor's edge: on one side, the abyss of mortality, on the other, the illusion of immortality through beliefs.

In the corridor, Nurse Carla, her eyes brimming with a mix of bewilderment and humor, whispered:

— Doctor, Mr. Augusto from bed 304 asked for noise-cancelling headphones.

— Why? — Tavares asked, already sensing the weight of the answer.

— He thinks he might get cancer if he hears Beethoven by accident. He said he doesn't want to die 20% at a time.

The irony was brutal. The same delusion that offered a cure to one life threatened the sanity of another.

PART 2

That afternoon, the hospital, usually a sanctuary of science and cleanliness, became a stage for the Greek tragedy of misinformation. Beethoven's melody, once a symbol of artistic sublimity, was now an anthem of naive belief. Dr. Tavares encountered the hospital director in the elevator, the confined space amplifying the sense of entrapment.

— Tavares, we need to talk. — The director's voice was a lament, his eyes reflecting the chaos. — The oncology ward has turned into a symphony.

— I know, I know... — The weight of the world seemed to rest on Henrique’s shoulders.

— We have patients fighting over headphones. One lady tried to go into the MRI with a cello "because live sound is more powerful." And the worst: the cafeteria owner is selling a "Beethoven Combo" — a sandwich with beet juice and disposable headphones for 35 reais.

Tavares let out a bitter laugh. — She's an entrepreneur, I’ll give her that. Deep down, she’s just capitalizing on humanity’s eternal search for shortcuts to health and happiness.

— Tavares, this is serious! We have people refusing treatment. — The director gestured, frustration visible. — People's lives are at stake, and blind belief is winning over reason.

The doctor sighed, a sound that seemed to pull the air out of his lungs. The battle was against an invisible and omnipresent enemy: misinformation, fed by anxiety and fear.

— I'll have a meeting with the patients. Explain that it was a misunderstanding, that the study was done on isolated cells, that the researcher herself said the number was invented...

— Good luck — the director said, a tone of veiled pessimism. — Because Dona Marlene already created a WhatsApp group called "Warriors of the Ode to Joy."

"Warriors of the Ode to Joy." The name echoed in Tavares' mind, a perverse metaphor for the brigade of false hope. He knew he would be facing not just ignorance but a newly born faith, shielded against the coldness of scientific truth.

PART 3

In the meeting room, twenty pairs of hopeful eyes awaited him. Some patients wore t-shirts with Beethoven's likeness, others carried sheet music, one bearing a "signature" purchased online. Tavares felt a chill. It was like trying to put out a fire with a dropper.

— Folks, I understand the excitement, but I need to clarify a few points... — he began, his voice trying to convey calm where desperation threatened.

— Doctor — Dona Marlene interrupted, now the official spokesperson, her cross-eyed gaze fixed on him —, are you trying to hide the cure because it’s more profitable to sell chemotherapy?

A murmur of agreement spread through the room, like an underground river of distrust finally surfacing. It was the tired old narrative of "Big Pharma," a convenient scapegoat for the complexity of the disease and the slowness of research.

— No, no, it’s not like that! It’s just that... — He tried to argue, but his voice was drowned out.

— Big Pharma doesn’t want us to know! — someone shouted from the back, their voice filled with revolutionary conviction.

— But Beethoven is public domain! You can’t patent that! — another chimed in triumphantly, as if they had uncovered the ultimate paradox of existence.

Tavares felt like Sisyphus, pushing the stone of reason up the mountain, only to watch it roll down, crushed by the weight of belief. He tried to explain scientific methodology, the vast difference between cells in Petri dishes and the intricate biology of living organisms, how the Brazilian researcher never recommended music as treatment. But it was like trying to explain quantum physics to someone who had just discovered the formula for happiness. Reason collided with an impenetrable wall of unwavering faith.

— How long did you study to become a doctor? — Dona Marlene asked, with a shrewdness that age had bestowed upon her.

— Eleven years — Tavares answered, feeling the trap close around him.

— I see. And Beethoven spent a lifetime making music. Who do you think understands more about healing?

The logic was so absurdly warped that it bordered on the philosophical, a complete inversion of values, where artistic passion surpassed systematic research. Tavares found himself facing an uncomfortable truth: the human mind, in its thirst for control and meaning in the face of death, often preferred a comforting narrative to a painful truth.

PART 4

Three weeks later, the waiting room of the office seemed haunted by a different silence, heavier. Dona Marlene reappeared. She was pale, visibly thinner, the armor of her conviction cracked. The spark in her eyes had faded, replaced by a melancholic shadow.

— Dona Marlene... — Tavares began, his heart tight. He knew silence was the most eloquent language of brutal truth.

— I know, doctor. — Her voice was small, a fragile breath. — Beethoven didn’t work.

Those words, once unthinkable, hung in the air like an epitaph for a vain hope. Tavares felt the sting of compassion.

— I'm sorry it came to this — he said, sincerely. Seeing a patient succumb to misinformation was one of the most painful things for a doctor.

She was silent for a long moment, her eyes misty, staring at an invisible point beyond the window, where the gray sky mixed with the gray of reality.

— But you know what’s funny? All those days listening to those symphonies... — Her voice rose a tone, tinged with an unexpected melancholy. — I’d never really paid attention to classical music before. It’s beautiful, doctor. It made me feel less alone.

Tavares nodded slowly, a deep understanding blooming in his chest. The music hadn’t healed the body, but it had touched the soul. In that void left by false hope, another type of healing had manifested: the healing of loneliness, fear, and the existential helplessness that the disease imposed. It was art rescuing a part of humanity that science, by its nature, could not reach.

— Music won't cure cancer, Dona Marlene — he said, his voice soft but firm. — But it can cure other things. It can nurture the spirit, bring comfort, make the journey feel less lonely.

— Can I keep listening during chemo? — she asked, a flicker of pragmatic hope reigniting in her eyes.

— Of course. — The permission was also a blessing, a recognition of the intrinsic value of art in life, even in the face of mortality.

— Then it’s settled. — She stood up, already regaining a bit of the lost dignity, like a phoenix reborn, not from the ashes of illusion but from the hard earth of reality. — But just so you know: 20% would still be better than 0%.

— True — he smiled, a genuine smile rarely seen on his tired face. — But you know what’s better than 20%? The 70% chance of cure chemotherapy gives you.

Dona Marlene paused at the door, the words hitting her like the weight of a late epiphany.

— Seventy? Why didn’t you start with that, doctor?

— I tried — Tavares replied, the irony echoing in the air.

— Ah. — She thought for a moment, her simplistic math brain doing the new calculations. — Well, seventy is more than five times twenty. Math doesn’t lie.

And she left, leaving Dr. Tavares between relief and exhaustion, while the patient’s phone rang distantly, unmistakable, a hymn to human resilience and its ability to adapt to the truth, no matter how painful: pam pam pam paaaaam.

Beethoven, in all his glory, would continue playing. But now, accompanied by the severe, yet liberating, scientific evidence. Art and science, finally, finding a point of convergence in the complex journey of human existence, where the melody of life intertwined with the rigor of truth.

Epilogue

On the way out of his shift, the midnight wind had that taste of metal and possibility. The city seemed, itself, a convalescing patient: lights scattered like medications, sirens in the distance like small alarms reminding that life doesn’t sleep whole. Tavares passed the cafeteria; the "Beethoven Combo" had been renamed the "Chemo Combo." The same nutritious ingredients, but with a new and strategic 20% discount. The café owner, in her mercantile wisdom and human pragmatism, had understood perfectly that numbers, when tied to real hope and not fantasies, had an undeniable power of attraction, regardless of the original context. After all, life’s melody required a more robust accompaniment.

Tavares smiled, carrying with him a thought he might not write: existence is an incomplete score, where the measures of meaning are written in pencil. The numbers are the measures; the music, the breath of those who endure. The rest is courage — not the denial of fear, but sitting beside it without being devoured.

And so, amidst the hum of monitors and the whisper of a symphony, the hospital continued its routine of life and loss, technique and tenderness. People came and went, each adding their humble piece to the world’s equation. No combo saved alone. No music healed without the body. But when reality and hope finally danced to the same beat, something in everyone straightened — a fine adjustment between the human desire and the world’s capacity.