"I swam the Waikiki RoughWater with Jeff's training."

Athlete's Body is Dying Muscle by Muscle

By Michael Tsai
Special to The Advertiser
Monday, August 28, 2000

Francean McClain crosses the hot sand to train for the Waikiki Roughwater Swim.You are still able to see light, you just can't make out the shapes. So every once in a while, when your imperfect stroke turns you off course, you find yourself running aground or, worse, into the jagged reef bordering the open ocean. You used to run marathons. You used to climb mountains. Now, with no feeling below your knees, you rely on a wheelchair to help you along. You crawl on your elbows just to reach the water. And that awful pain in your thighs and stomach and hands is a constant reminder that your nerves and muscles have not stopped dying yet. You are Francean McClain. For nearly all of your 52 years, you have lived with the knowledge that your body is slipping slowly out of your control. Not just aging - atrophying, dying. Nerve by nerve, muscle by muscle. You are losing your sight. You are losing control of your muscles. But none of that matters right now. At this moment you are belly down, dragging your legs across the warm sand of Ala Moana Beach. Your feet are drawn back ballerina-style by a system of ribbons you designed to help you move easier once you reach the water. You crawl across the sand and into the sea. In the water, you escape gravity. Here you are free - and scared. As you slowly make your way into deeper territory, you try not to think about the vastness of the ocean, of the vast uncertainty and danger. You concentrate on the rise and fall of the waves, the tug of the current, the feel of the water on your fingertips as you trace the wake of your training partners. You are still able to see light. Born and raised in Pennsylvania, Francean McClain was first diagnosed with Type A diabetes at age 10. With limited treatments available to manage the disease, she resigned herself to what she knew in her heart would be a life of transient opportunities. "In those days, there wasn't a lot they could do about diabetes," she said. "Without all of the advancements we have today, I guess you just died. So I thought I should get my money's worth out of this body." And she did. McClain ran marathons as a teenager. She hiked and biked and did everything she could think of while her body was still strong. "I'm really into physical stuff," she said. "I've never been terribly intellectual or spiritual, but I've always been very physical." McClain also was aware that, given her condition, it was almost inevitable that she would eventually need government assistance to help pay for her medical bills. But as long as she was able to work, she was determined to do her share. Still, those were the days before the Americans with Disabilities Act, and McClain said she found herself shut out of better-paying jobs because of her condition. "At that time, you couldn't get a job if there was anything wrong with you," she said. "You'd fill out these applications with all these questions about your health. They'd always find out what you had. And if there was anything wrong, you couldn't get a job to save your life." To make ends meet, McClain stocked shelves, delivered newspapers and waited tables - anything to be productive.

In 1972, unemployed and struggling, she sold everything she had and moved to Hawaii. She thrived in her new home, taking advantage of Hawaii's year-round good weather to indulge in outdoor activities. But her condition was catching up with her. Her eyesight worsened, and, by age 30, she no longer had the strength to stand on her toes. It took her an hour to walk five blocks. When the bones in her feet finally broke through the thin layer of atrophied muscle and skin surrounding them, she went to the doctor. McClain was diagnosed with neuropathy, a degenerative disease associated with diabetes. As the disease progressed, McClain lost most of the feeling in her legs. Eventually, she was forced to stop working. Four years ago, she started using a wheelchair. But McClain was too busy to despair. Within months, she was speeding down H-3 as the lone wheelchair entrant in the 1996 Trans-KoÔolau Run. The next year, she finished the Honolulu Marathon in 12 painful hours. More recently, McClain has turned her focus to swimming. If all goes well, she will be among the hundreds participating in next month's Waikiki Roughwater Swim, considered by many to be the premier distance swimming event in Hawaii. Though she has trained diligently for months, she is reluctant to send in her entry until she is sure she can complete the grueling 2.5-mile course on her own. "I've been wanting to do this for the last five years, but I was nowhere good enough," she said. "I don't want to embarrass myself. I don't want to get pulled out of the water. But I think I'm closer than ever. I'm not looking to set any records. I just want to participate. I'd love to tell people that I did that." The difference this year is Team Ulua, a group of noncompetitive swimmers that trains together for open-ocean events like the Waikiki Roughwater. With the help of her coach Jeff Swafford and her new training buddies, McClain has made huge strides in the water. "When she started she basically had no power and she had the meanest zigzag in the world," Swafford said. "She's improved a lot, and it's all from training and hard work. Mentally, she's an iron woman." McClain finds encouragement in the fact that, despite her worsening conditioning, she is just now coming into her own as a swimmer. And although it was never her intention, she hopes that in pursuing the things she loves, she might also serve as inspiration to others with diabetes. "A lot of people go blind, and they feel ashamed. They withdraw. I don't understand that. All they did was stay alive," she said. "I'd like it if other people came away thinking ÔMaybe I can do that. Maybe my life isn't over just because I can't see or walk.' " You are Francean McClain, and on a warm summer evening your hands are slicing through the water just the way your coach taught you. You are rocking your body to help bring movement to those legs of yours. You are reaching and pulling, reaching and pulling in a tiny corner of an immense sea. The sun will set soon. But for now, you can still see light.

By Michael Tsai
Special to The Advertiser
Monday, August 28, 2000