The anesthetic holds, but this still feels like having a tank grinding over my jaw. I'll just dump the laundry in quick and then start cooking, is as far as I get with my plans while I park the car in the garage.
   "Are you all done already?" asks my husband, looking surprised as he enters the hall.
   "Yup. Oh wait," I mumble inarticulately, producing a Kleenex to spit out the half-drenched tampon.
  "Did it hurt a lot?" he asks, eyebrows arched, then gives me a tentative hug.
   "It wasn't too bad. I did the shopping on the way, I'll fix some rice and asparagus."
   "Your face sure looks swollen. Don't you need ice on that?"
   "Swollen, really? Doctor said I could ice it. I dunno. I'll slap a pack of frozen peas on later.  I've had three kids," I tell him deadpan, "and this was just a little tooth. You want to grab that?" I point at the grocery bag, walking past it to the laundry room.
As soon as I lean down for the laundry hamper, I feel dizzy and a jolt of pain shoots through my face. Perhaps it's best to down a painkiller.
Two hours later I'm regretting home cooking. We could have just gotten pizza. I check the painkiller pack. Four tabs a day maximum, says the instruction hand-written by Dr. Várady. I  rush into the kitchen, pour a big glass of water and take one pill. I catch a glimpse of the transparent blue vial inside my open bag, containing the fragments of my lower left 8 wisdom tooth. I present it to my husband like a trophy:
   "Look, the dentist said this was enormous. It took him five stitches to sew up the hole."
   "You needed stitches? Are you sure you're okay? Your face is going purple, it must be twice its normal size. Should I call your mother over?"
I don't answer, but beeline for the bathroom.  My reflection looks scary: drawn eyes and cauliflower edemas. Oh my god!
Opening the deepfreeze isn't pleasant. My whole face aches from the sudden move. I shift half the peas into a smaller baggie. Before sitting down to ice myself, I take my second painkiller.

   By evening things get steadily worse. I can't even think straight, there's only the pain. More of it, and all over. The taste of blood makes my stomach queasy.
By nine PM I've had my fourth painkiller. Panic is setting in. I can't go all night without meds.
   At this point I give up. Retiring to the bedroom, I draw the curtain. Even though I'm not cold, I reach for the soft comforter. Then I have an idea, but feel too weak to leave the room, so I text my husband, Please fetch my vial with the tooth in, from the kitchen table. Thanks.
The door opens, but I keep still. I can hear my skull echoing my own whimpers. Then a cool hand smooths my tangled hair from my eyes. I hear my mother's voice, speaking very close:
   "Look what I have for you," she gently shakes the blue vial, We'll just stick this under your pillow here,  you'll make a wish, and everything will be okay in the morning. I'll get the asparagus out of the oven, and hang the clothes out."
   I won't argue. I let her put the tooth under my pillow. She tucks me in and switches off my beside. I'm snuggled under the duvet like a five-year-old, curled up with my eyes closed and wishing for the horrible pain to go away. Then the curtain flutters, the window is opened and I see a flurry of tiny purple wings around my forehead.
 
translated by Dani Dányi