Hastily grabbing my handbag, I rushed out the front door.
‘I’m ready now,’ I called to my husband Charles, 53.
Only, after taking a couple of steps outside our house in Long Island, New York, my hands flew to my pockets.
They were empty.
Not again, I thought.
I’d forgotten my house keys.
With a smile, Charles popped back inside for them.
But it was those little things that I’d had to slowly adjust to.
All because back in September 2015, my whole world changed.
Preparing for a skydive, it was a normal day – I’d been an instructor for 15 years.
Yet as me and a novice jumper took the plunge out of the plane, they weren’t paying attention.
They flew straight into me and knocked me unconscious.
The next thing I knew, I was waking up in
