I enjoy the beach and cuddles from my kitties. I live in a beautiful place. I love the old tv show CHiPs, St. Louis Cardinals and Blues! ❤️💙 Chipee69 Pokémon
Her name was Betty Ong. She was forty-five years old. She had grown up in San Francisco's Chinatown, the daughter of Chinese-American parents, and she had been a flight attendant with American Airlines for fourteen years. She was known to colleagues as "Bee."
On the morning of September 11, 2001, she was working American Airlines Flight 11 from Boston to Los Angeles. It was a trip she had chosen — she wanted to get to the West Coast so she could travel home to San Francisco and then on to Hawaii for a vacation with her sister. She was looking forward to it.
At 7:59 a.m., Flight 11 took off from Boston Logan Airport.
At approximately 8:19 a.m., from a phone at the back of the plane, Betty Ong dialed American Airlines.
The call was answered by Vanessa Minter, a reservations agent at the Raleigh-Durham center. She heard a woman's voice, calm and precise, say the words that no one had ever called in before.
"I think we're getting hijacked."
Minter immediately patched in her supervisor, Nydia Gonzalez. Betty stayed on the line.
For the next twenty-three minutes, in a voice that witnesses would later describe as composed, professional, and methodical, Betty Ong told the ground what was happening.
The cockpit was not answering. Two flight attendants had been stabbed. A passenger in business class had been attacked. Someone had sprayed what she thought was Mace, and people couldn't breathe. She gave the seat numbers of the men she believed were the hijackers. She described exactly what she could see and hear, in the rear of the aircraft, as far as she was from the cockpit door that would not open.
"In a very calm, professional and poised demeanor, Betty Ong relayed to us detailed information of the events unfolding on Flight 11," Gonzalez later told the 9/11 Commission. "Several media accounts claimed that Betty was hysterical with fear, shrieking and gasping for air. Those accounts were wrong."
She had been there. She knew.
On the ground, the information Betty was providing was being relayed to American Airlines operations, then to the FAA, then to air traffic control. The picture she was painting — in real time, from the back of a hijacked aircraft — was giving the people trying to understand what was happening on the East Coast of America that morning their first clear confirmation that this was not an accident, not a malfunction, not a confusion.
This was intentional. This was coordinated. This was something no one had a protocol for.
She stayed on the phone.
At 8:46 a.m., American Airlines Flight 11 struck the North Tower of the World Trade Center.
The line went silent.
Gonzalez stayed on the open call for a moment afterward, not yet knowing what had happened.
"Betty, talk to me. Betty, are you there? Betty? Okay... I think we might have lost her."
Betty Ong's family spent months after September 11 fighting to hear her voice. Her brother Harry called Senator Edward Kennedy's office to ask for help. In January 2002, the family was brought to a private room at San Francisco Airport and played the tape. It was the first time they had heard her speak since the morning of the 11th.
"Her first duty is for the passengers and for the plane," Harry said later. "She didn't call us because her first responsibility as a flight attendant that day was to help the plane and the passengers, and that's why she made that call."
When the 9/11 Commission heard portions of her call in 2004, the room was silent.
Vanessa Minter — the reservations agent who answered the phone that morning and stayed with Betty for fifteen minutes until Gonzalez took over — still thinks about her. She has given interviews for years about what it meant to be on the other end of that call.
"You have to understand," Minter said. "Betty Ong, to me, was the hero. She was the hero. Not me."
Betty Ong's name is on the memorial at Ground Zero. There is a street named for her in San Francisco's Chinatown. A park. A middle school.
She was going to Hawaii.
Instead, she picked up the phone. She told us what was happening. She stayed on the line until the line went quiet.
That is what quiet courage looks like when it matters most.
He does not wear a stethoscope, but the doctors and nurses here call him Doctor Peyo, and his medical instincts are baffling scientists. If you walk through the halls of an oncology and palliative care unit in Calais, France, you might just see this fifteen-year-old stallion walking quietly into a patient room.
He is not a typical therapy animal, and he is changing how people look at the end of life.
Peyo does not follow a trainer's commands or walk a set route through the building. Instead, he roams the hospital corridors and decides entirely on his own which doors to open. When he feels drawn to a specific patient, he stands outside the room and lifts one of his front legs.
This is the signal for his companion, Hassen Bouchakour, that someone inside needs comfort.
Hassen bought Peyo years ago for dressage competitions, but he quickly noticed something unusual about the horse. Peyo would consistently seek out people who were physically or mentally fragile after shows. Realizing his horse had a unique gift, Hassen decided to leave the competitive world behind.
Together, they underwent rigorous preparation to adapt to hospital environments. Peyo learned to navigate tight corners, ride in elevators, and control his bathroom needs for hours. Before every visit, he undergoes a deep cleaning process that takes nearly two hours to ensure he meets strict hospital hygiene standards.
Once inside a room, the large horse becomes completely still and gentle. He approaches the bed slowly, allowing patients to bury their faces in his warm flank or hold onto his mane. Hassen recalls one specific moment with a young patient that showed the deep connection Peyo forms.
Hassen said, "Peyo stayed by his side for hours, just breathing softly. The boy looked at me and whispered, 'He is telling me everything will be alright.'"
Medical staff have observed incredible changes in the patients Peyo visits. People who were once agitated become calm, and some even ask for fewer pain medications after spending time with him. He accompanies individuals who are facing their final days, yet his presence does not bring sadness. Instead, it brings a profound sense of peace to the room.
Scientists are still trying to understand how Peyo detects cancer and tumors so accurately. Some believe he might react to changes in human body chemistry or detect scent markers that humans cannot smell. Hassen, however, views it more simply. He believes Peyo just feels the vulnerability of the human spirit.
Peyo has supported thousands of patients in their final moments since he started his hospital work in 2016. In a fast-paced world dominated by machines and medications, this majestic creature offers a different kind of medicine. He shows us that the ultimate form of care cannot always be found in a pharmacy.
Sometimes, the deepest healing comes from the quiet, unconditional presence of a beautiful animal who simply chooses to stand by your side when you need it most.
Peyo reminds us all that love does not need human words to be understood, and no one has to walk the final road alone. When the journey gets heavy, a gentle soul with four kind hooves is there to carry them home in spirit, wrapping them in pure, unconditional peace until the very end.
The 1934 Gashouse Gang World Series winning team had some great nicknames.
Dizzy✅
Daffy
Dazzy✅
Spud
The Lip✅
Ripper
Pepper
Ducky✅
Fordham Flash✅
Ol' Stubblebeard✅
Pop✅
Wild Bill
Hall of Famer!! ✅
#STLCards
“I might have been given a bad break. But I’ve got an awful lot to live for.”
87 years after Lou Gehrig became the face of ALS, there is still no cure.
Today on #LouGehrigDay, we continue our mission to raise awareness of ALS, support the need for research and care, remember those who bravely fought, and recognize those who continue to battle.