I examined her each time she came for a checkup. I did her blood work. I listened to her heart. I took her blood pressure. And each time, the results were the same—everything was normal.

"But I am tired, doctor, and I do have pain everywhere," Lisette insisted.

"Describe your pain for me". I remained skeptical.

"Well ... . " She thought for a minute. "It sort of starts all over my body then moves into my hands". She got a distant look in her eyes. "My hands are so painful".

I took her hands in mine. I looked at them. She had long, slender fingers—fine, strong. Her joints were not swollen. No deformity, not a blemish. The skin on her hands was only slightly wrinkled, and there were just small, pale age spots, barely noticeable. How unusual for a woman of 55 to own such elegant hands, I thought. Yet, why did she say her hands were so painful? I turned them over to examine the palms. They were pink with health.

I looked up at her face. She stared off into the distance as though trying to hold onto something left behind.

"I played piano when I was young," she said, her voice so soft I could barely hear her. "But I grew old and my problems started, and I gave up the piano, even for my friends". She let out a long, slow sigh.

We both sat silently, staring.

Lisette was in perfect health. What could I say to her? Lamely, I just told her to come back in 6 months.

Two months later, I noticed Lisette's name on the schedule for the day. Her tiredness must have worsened, I thought, annoyed.

I stepped into the examining room and was astounded at Lisette's appearance. Her sparkling eyes, shimmering hair, and soft complexion made her look much younger than her 55 years. Her radiance dazzled. It was a startling transformation.

I was speechless. Before I could say a word, she blurted out, "I started to play at parties, Doctor, just for friends, that is. I had forgotten how wonderful it made me feel to play Chopin. To hear his music. To see the pleasure on people's faces". She smiled.

"That is wonderful," I said.

"And I've met a man. He loves Chopin too. And Bach and Beethoven," she bubbled. "He's very special to me. We've ... we've fallen in love. And do you know, doctor? It's the most amazing thing. I'm not tired anymore. All my aches and pains are gone!"

After she left, Franz and I discussed her case. We agreed on the diagnosis: As Moliere once said, "love is the best doctor".

Or is it Chopin?