After the accident, he was inspired, even possessed, by music. “TREE SONATA” (1999)/ROBERT AND SHANA PARKEHARRISON / JACK SHAINMAN GALLERY

Tony Cicoria was forty-two, very fit and robust, a former college football player who had become a well-regarded orthopedic surgeon in a small city in upstate New York. One afternoon in 1994, he was at a lakeside pavilion for a family gathering. It was pleasant and breezy, but he noticed a few storm clouds in the distance; it looked like rain.

He went to a pay phone outside the pavilion to make a quick call to his mother (this was before the age of cell phones). He still remembers every second of what happened next: “I was talking to my mother. There was a little bit of rain, thunder in the distance. My mother hung up. The phone was a foot away from where I was standing when I got struck. I remember a flash of light coming out of the phone. It hit me in the face. Next thing I remember, I was flying backwards.”

Then—he seemed to hesitate before telling me this—“I was flying forwards. Bewildered. I looked around. I saw my own body on the ground. I said to myself, ‘Oh shit, I’m dead.’ I saw people converging on the body. I saw a woman—she had been waiting to use the phone right behind me—position herself over my body, give it CPR. . . . I floated up the stairs—my consciousness came with me. I saw my kids, had the realization that they would be O.K. Then I was surrounded by a bluish-white light . . . an enormous feeling of well-being and peace. The highest and lowest points of my life raced by me. I had the perception of accelerating, being drawn up. . . . There was speed and direction. Then, as I was saying to myself, ‘This is the most glorious feeling I have ever had’—slam! I was back.”

Cicoria knew that he was back in his own body because he felt pain—pain from the burns on his face and on his left foot, where the electrical charge had entered and exited—and, he realized, “only bodies have pain.” He wanted to go back, he wanted to tell the woman to stop giving him CPR, to let him go. But it was too late—he was firmly back among the living. After a minute or two, when he could speak, he said, “It’s O.K.—I’m a doctor!” The woman, who turned out to be an intensive-care-unit nurse, replied, “A few minutes ago, you weren’t.”

The police came and wanted to call an ambulance, but Cicoria refused. His family took him home (“It seemed to take hours,” he recalled), where he called his own doctor, a cardiologist. The cardiologist thought that Cicoria must have had a brief cardiac arrest, but said, “With these things, you’re alive or dead.” He did not believe that Cicoria would suffer any aftereffects.

Cicoria also consulted a neurologist—he was feeling sluggish (most unusual for him) and having some difficulties with his memory. He found himself forgetting the names of people he knew well. He had a thorough neurological exam, an EEG, and an MRI. Again, nothing seemed amiss.

A couple of weeks later, when his energy returned, Cicoria went back to work. There were still some lingering memory problems—he occasionally forgot the names of rare diseases or surgical procedures—but his surgical skills were unimpaired. In another two weeks, his memory problems disappeared, and that, he thought, was the end of the matter.

What happened then fills Cicoria with amazement even now, a dozen years later. Life had returned to normal, seemingly, when “suddenly, over two or three days, there was this insatiable desire to listen to piano music.” This was completely out of keeping with anything in his past. He had had a few piano lessons as a boy, he said, “but no real interest.” He did not have a piano in his house. What music he did listen to tended to be rock and roll.

With this sudden onset of craving for piano music, he began to buy recordings and became especially enamored of a Vladimir Ashkenazy recording of Chopin favorites—the “Military” Polonaise, the “Winter Wind” Étude, the “Black Keys” Étude, the A-flat Major Polonaise. “I loved them all,” Cicoria said. “I had the desire to play them. I ordered all the sheet music. At this point, one of our babysitters asked if she could store her piano in our house—so now, just when I craved one, a piano arrived, a nice little upright. It suited me fine. I could hardly read the music, could barely play, but I started to teach myself.” It had been more than thirty years since the few piano lessons of his boyhood, and his fingers felt stiff and awkward.

And then, on the heels of this sudden desire for piano music, Cicoria started to hear music in his head. “The first time, it was in a dream,” he said. “I was in a tux, onstage; I was playing something I had written. I woke up, startled, and the music was still in my head. I jumped out of bed, started trying to write down as much of it as I could remember. But I hardly knew how to notate what I heard.” This was not surprising—he had never tried to write or notate music before. But whenever he sat down at the piano to work on the Chopin his own music “would come and take me over. It had a very powerful presence.”

I was not quite sure what to make of this peremptory music, which would intrude and overwhelm him. Was he having musical hallucinations? No, Cicoria said, they were not hallucinations—“inspiration” was a more apt word. The music was there, deep inside him—or somewhere—and all he had to do was let it come to him. “It’s like a frequency, a radio band. If I open myself up, it comes. I want to say, ‘It comes from Heaven,’ as Mozart said.” His music is ceaseless. “It never runs dry,” he said.

Now he had to wrestle not just with learning to play the Chopin but with giving form to the music in his head, trying it out on the piano, getting it down on manuscript paper. “It was a terrible struggle,” he said. “I would get up at four in the morning and play till I went to work, and when I got home from work I was at the piano all evening. My wife was not really pleased. I was possessed.”

In the third month after being struck by lightning, then, Cicoria—once an easygoing, genial family man, almost indifferent to music—was inspired, even possessed, by music, and scarcely had time for anything else. It began to dawn on him that perhaps he had been “saved” for a special pupose. “I came to think that the only reason I had been allowed to survive was the music,” he said. I asked him whether he had been a religious man before the lightning. He had been raised Catholic, he said, but had never been particularly observant; he had some “unorthodox” ideas, too, such as a belief in reincarnation.

He himself, he grew to think, had had a sort of reincarnation—had been transformed and given a special gift, a mission, to “tune in” to the music that he called, half metaphorically, “the music from Heaven.” This came, often, in “an absolute torrent” of notes with no breaks, no rests between them, and he would have to give it shape and form. (As he said this, I thought of Caedmon, the seventh-century Anglo-Saxon poet, an uneducated herdsman who, it was said, had received the art of song in a dream one night and spent the rest of his life praising God and creation in hymns and poems.)