For most people, surgery is something to fear once or twice in a lifetime.
For Jennifer Hiles, surgery has been a constant shadow since childhood.
At 28 years old, Jennifer has already survived more medical trauma than many will face in a lifetime.
Her condition is rare, painful, and relentless — and it has nearly killed her more than once.
Jennifer lives with arteriovenous malformation, known as AVM.
It is a disorder where arteries and veins connect abnormally, bypassing capillaries and creating dangerous pressure inside the body.
In Jennifer’s case, the AVM spread across her face.
What began as something doctors believed was a simple birthmark slowly turned into a life-threatening condition.
As she grew older, the malformation worsened.
The blood vessels expanded, twisted, and weakened, making her face vulnerable to sudden and severe bleeding.
At times, her gums would bleed uncontrollably.
The condition eroded the bone around her teeth, creating a terrifying reality where even a tooth falling out could cause her to bleed to death.
For years, Jennifer lived knowing that any moment could turn fatal.
A nosebleed was never just a nosebleed — it was an emergency.
As a child, she required constant blood transfusions.
The transfusions became so frequent that doctors implanted a port directly into her heart to reduce the trauma of repeated needles.
Her mother, Alfreda Simms, remembers nights filled with fear.
She would go to bed wondering if her daughter would still be alive in the morning.
There were moments when Jennifer would be found in her crib, silent, covered in blood.
She wasn’t crying — she was losing blood faster than anyone realized.
When Jennifer was just 11 years old, she nearly died.
A severe bleed forced doctors to airlift her to the hospital, where she arrived with only two pints of blood left in her body.
That day remains burned into her family’s memory.
It was the day they truly understood how fragile her life was.
Despite countless medical procedures, nothing stopped the AVM from progressing.
Cauterization failed.
Surgical attempts failed.
As the condition advanced, so did the stares.
Jennifer grew up knowing what it felt like to be watched, whispered about, and judged.
School was not a safe place.
Children asked questions without filters, sometimes cruelly, sometimes loudly.
She struggled to make friends.
Romantic relationships came with their own kind of pain.
Jennifer remembers realizing she was “different” during her first relationship.
Her boyfriend would talk to her privately, but ignore her in public.
He was embarrassed to be seen with her.
That realization changed how she saw herself forever.
The bullying wasn’t just about appearance — it was about isolation.
Jennifer learned how quickly people could look away.
Yet through all of it, she kept going.
She survived surgeries, hospital stays, and fear after fear.
Then something unexpected happened.
In biology class, she met a boy named Dustin VanOverschelde.
Dustin didn’t pretend she wasn’t there.
He hugged her in the hallway.
He kissed her in public.
For Jennifer, it was shocking.
Someone wasn’t hiding her.
Dustin didn’t see the AVM first.
He saw Jennifer.
They fell in love.
They built a life together.
Today, Jennifer is a wife and a mother of two young children, Marlena and Kya.
Her world revolves around them.
But even motherhood came with pain she never expected.
Something as simple as picking her daughter up from school could become heartbreaking.
Children would stare.
Some would shout questions.
Others would scream.
One day, a child pointed at Jennifer and yelled, “What is wrong with her face?”
Other children joined in, calling her gross, asking whose mother she was.
Jennifer stood there, frozen.
She didn’t hug her daughter.
She didn’t kiss her.
She didn’t want anyone to know she was her mom.
Not because she was ashamed of her child.
But because she was afraid of how the cruelty would affect her.
Jennifer worried constantly about her children being bullied because of her appearance.
The fear followed her everywhere.
Through it all, the medical danger never stopped.
Bleeding remained a constant threat.
Then doctors proposed something radical.
Something extreme.
Before attempting to remove the AVM entirely, surgeons needed more skin.
Healthy skin.
So they placed balloons under Jennifer’s facial skin.
Saline expanders.
Week after week, for eight weeks, the balloons were slowly filled.
Her skin stretched further each time.
Jennifer described it simply.
“It’s like breast implants — but in my face.”
The pain was constant.
The pressure was unbearable at times.
Every week, her face swelled more.
Every week, strangers stared harder.
But this time, there was hope attached to the pain.
The expanders were preparation for a surgery that could change everything.
In the upcoming operation, doctors plan to remove the AVM completely.
All of the pink, damaged tissue will be cut away.
They will remove her nose.
They will reconstruct it using bone from her rib.
The excess skin created by the balloons will be used to cover the wounds.
To rebuild her face.
It is not cosmetic vanity driving this decision.
It is survival.
Jennifer knows she may not look the same afterward.
She doesn’t know if she will look “normal.”
But that’s all she wants.
Not perfection.
Normal.
She wants to go to lunch with her family without being stared at.
She wants to walk into a school without fear.
She wants to stop worrying about bleeding to death.
She wants to live.
Her husband, Dustin, admits the surgery is frightening.
The outcome is uncertain.
But he knows one thing won’t change.
How he feels about her.
He says he has always seen past the outside.
To him, she has always been beautiful.
For Dustin, the surgery isn’t about appearance.
It’s about time.
More years.
More moments.
More memories with their children.
More ordinary days that Jennifer has never truly had.
As the surgery date approaches, Jennifer balances fear and hope.
She knows the risks.
She also knows what staying the same could mean.
Another bleed.
Another emergency.
Another near-death moment.
This surgery is her chance to close a chapter filled with pain.
And open one filled with possibility.
She dreams of small things.
Simple things.
Not being called names.
Not being stared at.
Not having to explain her face.
Not being afraid.
For Jennifer Hiles, the balloons under her skin are not just medical devices.
They are symbols.
Of endurance.
Of courage.
Of a woman who has survived everything life threw at her — and is still standing.
And as she prepares to face the most drastic surgery of her life, she holds onto one quiet wish.
To finally live.
