Election eve

It’s the last week of what feels like a marathon run and I fell before the finishing line.

It’s election eve in Australia and I’m sitting upright at a computer writing words for the first time in almost a week. A combination of pain from a non occlusive thrombus in the right radial artery (translation: blood clot in my right forearm) an allergic reaction to medication and a virus of the head-spin inducing variety have kept me from the things that have held me together for the past year – basically sitting at a computer writing words.

Because it is the eve of an election that is being largely fought on the issue of health funding, I wanted to write about Medicare. I wanted to tell you the story of how the public health system has caught me and my family every time we’ve fallen. Like, when my son’s birth turned into an emergency situation, from which he eventually arrived safely into the world, or about all the times my kids needed urgent medical attention and were able to get it, without delay and without cost. Or how, in the last few weeks when I have witnessed the health system up close, every test – even those using expensive, cutting-edge equipment – was covered by Medicare. And the care I have received has been mostly excellent.  

I even had a bulk-billed home visit from a doctor on a Sunday. If I lived in New Zealand, that visit would have cost $400. I can’t even begin to imagine how much such a thing would cost in the US, thousands maybe?  The US health system is the stuff of nightmares.

As much as I wanted to write about that, and have in the past written love letters to Medicare, it’s really a universal story here in Australia. I bet everyone reading this can think of a time when possession of that little green card meant you could get the care you needed, without it costing the earth. You don’t need me to convince you that Medicare should be saved, do you? And, tbh, I think that Australians are so passionate about protecting Medicare that vote to save it.

What people are talking about though is a people powered movement that has been steadily growing in the last twelve months. It has been dubbed by The Australian newspaper as a "secret army" and the subject of many illuminating media stories* about a campaign involving people talking to one another. The people in that movement have set up market and street stalls, knocked on doors and made phone calls - oh so many phone calls – they’ve literally had thousands of conversations. Each week, more people have joined in. 

Watching a movement grow is very special and it’s been a brilliant campaign to watch and to work on. The campaign organisers around the country and the team at campaign HQ are some of the finest people you could ever meet. I’m inspired by their stamina and drive, and their tenacity and creativity. They've literally given their all and I know I'm not the only one that doesn't have much juice left in the tank. But still they carried on, week in week out, facing greater adversity as the looming election grew closer - the tales of chicanery and bastardry at early voting centres have been toe-curling. 

I’ll be watching the results very closely tomorrow night. my ears pricking and my pulse rate raising a little every time there's an update on the results in the thirty-odd seats the campaign touched. Good luck one and all, the Build a Better Future campaign team. 

*That secret army’s not so secret anymore

*Election 2016: Union volunteers staff Labor’s ‘ground war

BONUS: ELECTION EVE TRADITIONAL TUNE

BONUS: THIS TRACK INSPIRED THE WORK OF THE HQ CAMPAIGN POD

My Left Foot - Part 2 - Surgery and Hospitalisation

Surprisingly, I felt very calm during the morning of my foot surgery. It was probably because everything was organised.

The kids were at school and would head to their dad's house in the afternoon. The dogs were at my brother's house and I had done 30% water changes on all of the fish tanks. The guinea pigs had fresh hay, water and food and the plants had been watered. My friend Darren was driving me to the hospital and my friend Jacky was picking me up. I had rearranged the lounge room, ready for many weeks of convalescence. There was food in the cupboard and ready-made meals in the freezer. There wasn't anything left to do, but I couldn't sit still and spent the whole morning on my feet pottering around the house.

I arrived at Epworth Hospital Hawthorn at lunchtime and waited on shaking legs for the admissions officer to call me to the window. When it was my turn, I was asked for payment of the hospital excess of $450. I had already organised to have the excess waived, and I took a seat while she searched for the right piece of paper to confirm it.

A nurse with a bubbly personality collected me from the waiting area and wheeled me into the pre-op ward. I was handed a surgical gown and a large paper bag and shown into a change room. Once I got the gown on I hobbled to the nurse's office where I was quizzed about what I had consumed that day and how I was feeling.

She left me alone with a stack of trashy magazines and after ten minutes or so the surgeon entered the office and greeted me. He asked if I was ready and I told him I was more than ready to get this show on the road.

"Ready when you are Doc,"

With a permanent marker he drew a dark blue arrow on my left shin, pointing at my left foot. "Now we're ready," he said. We laughed together before he left me alone in the room again.

Next to enter the room was the anaesthetist. He had warm hands and a gentle manner and he nodded sympathetically when I told him that, like just about everyone on the planet, I was terrified by the idea of general anaesthetic. He promised to look after me and changed the subject, asking me to climb up on the guerny and tell him about my work. I could feel my heart thundering in my chest as all of the anxiety I had suppressed all day came bubbling to surface and I babbled.

While I was part way through a despairing diatribe about union density in the Australian private sector the anaesthetist and his nurse wheeled the guerny the short distance from the office to the operating theatre. As the double doors were pushed open I heard myself say, in a fairly belligerent fashion, "they get all the benefits and the buggers still won't join their union!"

6 pairs of eyes stared at me, surgical masks hiding facial expressions. I sincerely hoped I hadn't been wheeled into a room full of Tories with sharp knives!

The anaesthetist asked me to sit up on the guerny and roll onto my stomach and said he was about to give me something to help me relax, as well as a nerve block.

I don't know who the other people in the room were, but they seemed busy fiddling with machines and murmuring softly to one another. I felt a quick sting in he back of my left knee and stayed face down for maybe 30 seconds more. The anaesthetist asked how I was feeling.

"A bit light headed actually," I told him.

He helped me sit up and the room started to spin. As soon as I lay down again, this time on my back, the anaesthetist said "We're ready to start now Leanne." A black mask was lowered over my mouth and nose and I was told to count backwards from ten. I don't think I even got to 9 before I was out like a light.

When I awoke a couple of hours later, my first thought was "It hurts."

My eyes blinked open and I saw a nurse behind a desk at the end of my bed. My elevated foot was resting in an open cast with crepe bandage wrapped around it, held together with tape.

"It hurts," I said, aloud this time, in a croaky voice.

She moved away from the desk and I closed my eyes. When I opened them again the anaesthetist's nurse was at my bedside.

"Hi," I said, "It hurts."

Then I cried a little She put her hand on my arm, to comfort me.

"We're going to move you into your room now and then we'll get you something for the pain."

I was becoming more alert and the pain was waking up too, growing in intensity.

"It hurts," I breathed, trying not to cry again.

The guerny was wheeled into an insanely large private room and I transferred to a bed with help from two nurses.

Now that I was fully awake I noticed how thirsty and hungry I felt and I could smell the hot meals that had been delivered to the other rooms in the ward. My stomach growled loudly. A nurse told me she would organise a light meal for me and handed me a cup of tablets, followed by a cup of water. I swallowed the contents of both before having a quick lesson in how to operate the bed and how to call for help. Before leaving the room the nurse switched the TV on and handed me to remote control, which I used to find ABC24. I watched the rolling news coverage through bleary eyes and it wasn't long before I dozed off.

When I opened my eyes again it was night and I could see the bright street lights through the window. I pressed the call button next the bed and a curmudgeon nurse appeared in the doorway. My most pressing needs were urination and food and she helped me get up on my right foot and pushed a wheeled walking frame within reach. I used it to hop to the bathroom and the nurse left to find me some food. The plate of sandwiches that arrived about 15 minutes later were gratefully received and I savoured all three of them.

When I had finished eating I was handed another cup of pills and a cup of water, and then I snuggled into the bed to watch Lateline. I slept well, deeply.

The pain woke up the same time I did and I buzzed for a nurse who told me the meds would arrive in half an hour. I counted the minutes, 28, 27, 26, 25, and tried to distract myself with emails and social media.

My first visitor that day was the surgeon. When he asked me how I was feeling I said "better than Campbell Newman," to which he looked perplexed - I'm not sure he got the reference, but he glanced at the television and said "Oh." (I can’t actually remember what was going on with Campbell Newman on that day). He told me the surgery went very well and the most important thing to do now was rest, and he’d stop by again the following day.

My next visitor was the hospital physiotherapist, who showed me a range of mobility devices I could use while in hospital and hire to take home. I took a knee scooter for a test ride up and down the hallway, moving fast on the smooth linoleum-covered floor. I chose the wheeled walking frame for in-hospital use and arranged to hire a knee scooter and a commode seat to take home. All three were delivered to my room before my next visitor arrive.

Darren was immediately drawn to the knee scooter and took it for a spin around the room before heading out for "real coffee". I was almost feeling like my old self by the time I finished that coffee.

I slept through the afternoon until my kids arrived, dropping in to visit me on their way home from school. I was so very happy to see them. We cuddled, held hands and shared a bag of lollies while they
told me about their respective days.

Mum's on Endone

After they left I tried to read, first a magazine, then a book, but I was struggling to concentrate and stared at the television instead.

The next day passed in much the same fashion, without as many visitors. Wake, visit the bathroom, take meds, eat, doze, repeat. The surgeon came again and Darren popped in to drop off a bottle of Vitamin D capsules and reassure me that the fish and the guinea pigs were all fine.

Day three of my stay was a Friday, the day that the acute surgical ward was converted to a weekend IVF clinic, meaning I had to move out. I was transferred to the rehab ward soon after lunch, for my final night in hospital.

There's a big difference in the level of nursing supervision patients receive in the rehab ward than in the acute ward - well, that's my experience any way. Things take a bit longer to get to you, nurses are more likely to be up for a chat (maybe that's why things take longer?)

I was in there for less than 24 hours and in that time a wheel fell off the walking frame twice - both times while I was using it, causing me to land heavily on my injured foot. The second time it happened, I was in the bathroom and had just finished using the toilet. The toilet blocked and overflowed and while I was moving away from the overflow - pretty quickly, I might add - when the wheel fell off for the second time. I was in pain, I was immobile and water from the toilet bowl was snaking across the bathroom floor toward me. I tapped the call button and was shocked when four nursing staff burst through the bathroom door.

I gestured, first at the toilet and then at foot, and asked "You're filming this right? Where's the camera?"

One of the nurses snarled at me "you pushed the wrong button - we thought it was an emergency."

I pointed at the overflowing toilet bowl, and my foot, and said "It kind of is."

Three of the four nurses turned their back and left he bathroom, one remained behind to get me back into bed and deal with the toilet situation. He unblocked it pretty quickly and mopped up, while I tried to get comfortable on the bed, bristling with nicotine withdrawal and indignation. I slept fitfully that night.

I'm just speculating, but the nurse who brought me my morning meds looked and smelled like she had come straight to work from a booze-fuelled all night dance party. Her long fake nails were decorated with glitter, her orangey skin peeped out over too low pants and under a too small shirt and her smeared make-up had a definite "morning after" look to it. She was nice enough though, and certainly wasn't going to take any crap from me.

She got me medicated, fed and showered and organised my take home meds from the hospital pharmacy. She taught me how to give myself injections of Clexane (an anti-coagulant, taken to reduce the risk of blood clots) and helped me get my things together, ready for departure.

The surgeon left a phone message saying he wouldn't be stopping by that day and that he was happy for me to be discharged.  He'd see me in a fortnight at our pre-arranged appointment.

Jacky arrived and gave me a big squeezy hug before picking up my overnight bag and the commode seat. The orange coloured nurse followed us to the lifts, carrying two pharmacy bags and yelling at me to slow down - I was scooting down the hall pretty fast and it felt great!

Jacky, who incidentally is the queen of parking, had found a spot right next to the hospital entrance. I got myself into the front passenger seat and waited there while Jacky and Nurse Orange wrestled with the knee scooter, trying to find the lever that would make it fold down. They found it (hooray!) and we took off, waving farewell to Nurse Orange.

I found my sunglasses, leaned back in the seat and lowered the passenger window.

It was time to go home.

#myleftfoot

My Left Foot - Part 1 - The Injury

I didn't really think about my feet very much prior to November 2013. Sure, they had done a good job of carrying me across continents, mountains and dance floors but they were also annoyingly wide and difficult to shoe.

Besides, there were other parts of my body that demanded the lion's share of attention, like the hip afflicted with severe osteoarthritis and the knee joint that has so thoroughly pulverised it's meniscus I can both feel and hear the bones grinding against each other whenever I take a step. I had grown used to living with chronic (often debilitating) pain for almost fifteen years and in the back of my mind I knew I would need to have both joints replaced some time in the future.

In the early hours of Monday 18th November 2013 my left foot made it's bold play, dragging me into a world of white hot pain and long-term limited mobility.

It had been a lovely family-oriented weekend. My son and daughter were with me (they have two homes and spend 50% of their time at the home they share with me) and we spent time with my father and two of my brothers and their families, celebrating my son's 16th birthday. Underlying the celebratory good cheer was a deep concern about my father's increasingly apparent mental decline, due to dementia.

Dad and I jointly purchased a new bed for my son, a combined birthday and Christmas gift for the young man who had well and truly outgrown his narrow single bed.  We completely emptied and cleaned his bedroom and my son and daughter assembled the new double bed. By Sunday night, the contents of his room were either gathered near the front door ready for collection by a charity or packed away again in his room - or so I thought.

On a middle of the night dunny run, with neither my eyes open nor the lights on, one of my feet connected with a box of action figure toys out of its usual place. I don't recall if I kicked the box or stood in it, but whatever I did caused a spectacular fall that resulted in my body slamming against a wall and my foot bending like a banana. While reaching out with my hands to break my fall I managed to pull a heavy electric keyboard onto my thighs and a basket of percussive instruments onto my head. Cowbells, rhythm sticks and maracas created a brief cacophony as they rained down on me. My brain did a quick assessment of my injuries - sore head, sore thighs, my foot. MY FOOT!

My long, loud howl of pain roused my thirteen year old daughter. In her levelheaded way she calmly lifted me from the floor and supported me as I hopped back to bed. She helped me into bed and gently rested my foot on a pile of pillows before heading to the kitchen for an ice pack. What a trooper! Did I mention she was only thirteen at the time this happened? #likeagirl

The pain was excruciating but I tried valiantly to give my daughter a reassuring smile as I sent her back to bed. It was just after 3am and she needed to get up at 6am to get ready for school. She returned to her room, but I discovered later that she didn't sleep again that night, so great was her worry about me.

I didn't sleep again either.

For the next three hours I quietly sobbed while my foot swelled and throbbed. I set my mind to the problem of how the hell I was going to get the kids to the train station and myself to hospital. I went over and over the plan I had nutted out - lie here until 6:30 am, call cab and call brother, drop kids at station and pick up brother, go to hospital.

As the hours passed I added another item to the list - lie here until 6:30am, hop to the bathroom, call cab and brother, etc. My tumble had derailed me from the purpose of getting up in the first place and my bladder was uncomfortably full.

At 6am my daughter returned to my room to check on me, and when the tousled head of my son appeared in the doorway and he asked "what happened?" his weary mother and sister snarled in unison "how on earth did you sleep through all the ruckus?" Poor fella. He dropped to his knees by my bedside and hugged me tightly. Eager to help, he kept asking what he could do for me. I laid out the plan for them and my son helped me get off the bed, then supported me while I hopped to the bathroom. Every hop jolted my left foot, giving new life to pain. I gritted my teeth and sank gratefully onto the toilet seat.

I couldn't bear to jolt my foot any more, so I crawled on hands and knees back to the bedroom, grabbed whatever clothes were within reach and after levering myself onto my right foot, I threw the clothes and myself onto the bed. I dressed myself lying down and waited for the kids to finish dressing, having breakfast, making lunch and packing bags. The pain was so overwhelming I was having trouble talking, so I booked a cab via an app and sent a text to my brother telling him to be in his driveway and ready to jump in a cab.

When the cab arrived I crawled out to the driveway and, using my elbows on the taxi seat and with a helping hand from the taxi driver I levered myself up on to my right foot so I could get onto the seat. The driver was very kind about my predicament.

As I looked at the worried faces of my children when I left them at the train station, I wondered if I would see them again that night, or if I would be spending the night in hospital.

I was relieved to find my brother waiting in the driveway at Dad's house as instructed. He was Dad's primary carer and there was every chance he wouldn't have been able to get away. Thankfully, Dad was still asleep when I arrived. Knowing that the Royal District Nursing Service would be along soon to supervise his morning insulin injection and make sure he ate breakfast, and also knowing Dad's habit of wandering off from home in search of his "other home" usually occurred in the afternoons or evenings, we felt we could take the risk of leaving him alone for a little while. All I needed Shane to do was get me into a wheelchair. Once he had wheeled me into the emergency department I told him he should head back to Dad, but he stayed with me and asked his partner to keep an eye on Dad. #dementiaadventure

At the triage desk I graded my pain as 10/10 and gratefully swallowed the morphine tablet handed to me by the nurse. After 20 minutes, when the morphine had merely taken the edge off the pain, I figured I had sustained a fairly serious injury. Although still in pain, my mood improved dramatically and I was able to smile and joke around. That's morphine for you!

I was wheeled into the x-ray department and the pain reared its head again when the radiographer insisted I bear weight on my foot. I waited in the short-term emergency ward trying to calmly breathe my pain out (some hippy pain management technique I had used successfully during labour and childbirth) and chatting with my brother. I sent an email to my boss and my staff, letting them know I probably wouldn't be coming into the office.

A doctor arrived at my bedside to let me know the x-ray did not show any breaks or fractures, so they were sending me home. A woman arrived with a pair of crutches and an equipment hire form, so I could pay the $30 hire cost before leaving the hospital. I was discharged without a prescription for pain relief medication and was advised to take paracetamol to help with the pain.

I spent the remainder of that week on the couch with my foot elevated, using my phone and iPad to work from home.

The following week I hobbled into the office for a day-long management meeting and spent the rest of that week working from my couch. When there was no significant improvement by the start of the third week, I went to my local general practice and asked for another x-Ray. Again, the x-ray didn't show any bone damage and the GP said that I should continue to rest it as much as possible, and it should be back to normal within a couple of weeks.

I felt frustrated with this advice and wanted to look into it more thoroughly, but there was so much intense, serious stuff going on in my life right then that I let go of the idea of healing and settled for carrying on and coping with a bung foot.

For the next seven months I hobbled around on my painful, misshapen foot while life went on. I hobbled to the Victorian Civil and Administrative Tribunal for the hearing to be appointed my father's guardian and administrator. I limped through tours of aged care facilities in the north and north east of Melbourne. I clomped around Dad's house, helping my brother's pack up his belongings after I moved him into a nursing home. I shuffled through airports in Melbourne, Sydney and Adelaide and dragged my foot along those cities' streets and throughout the north island of New Zealand. All the while, biting back the pain and discomfort. I almost managed to stand through an entire Polyphonic Spree concert, but I just couldn't make it through the eight song encore set and trudged outside the venue looking for a seat.

Stupidly, this injury also co-incided with my sudden and surprising obsession with tropical fish-keeping - an interest that involves lugging around heavy buckets of water and other heavy things like tanks and gravel. #tanktales

There wasn't much time to elevate my foot over those months as the demands of the campaigning work I was doing in my regular job, coupled with the work I was doing out of work hours on our internal election, saw me working fourteen hour days and working seven days a week. I can't be sure of this but I think my stress and fatigue left me in a fog so thick that the pain couldn't pierce it. I just kept stumbling on, knowing the end of this intense period would surely come.

Then two things happened in July 2014. We lost the internal election, throwing my job security into question, and the twelve month waiting period for the private hospital cover I had organised on the advice of a health insurance consultant I had met at a pub in mid-2013, expired.

I pushed my job security fears to one side and made an appointment with the sports medicine doctor who had diagnosed my knee issues a year or so ago. I told him I wanted to organise hip replacement surgery as soon as possible now I was eligible for private hospital cover. He had watched me closely as I walked into his office and he said we could talk about the hip but it seemed my foot was the obvious priority.

The MRI he ordered showed the ligament that normally holds the foot bones in their place was, in my foot, a "ball of grey mush". Arrows on the scan pointed to spots of arthritis and possible fracturing. The doctor referred me to two surgeons for urgent assessment and asked me to let him know which one I decided to go with.

The first surgeon I saw sent me off for a CT and CT-spect scan. The process for these scans takes a day and when I next saw the surgeon he was able to show me an in depth look at the damage to my foot. The ligament was beyond repair and there were little fractures and small loose splinters of bone.

In the fall all those months ago I had sustained a lisfranc (mid-foot) injury along with the ligament damage, and the only course of action available was a surgical procedure called a mid-foot fusion.

I was relieved to finally have an understanding of the injury and to learn there was, if not a cure, a procedure that could give me some relief.

Between the diagnosis and the surgery (about 7 weeks) I got through by having the foot strapped by a podiatrist (surprisingly effective) for four days per week, then wearing a soft ankle brace on the other three days.

On 5th November 2014 - almost a year after I fell - I was wheeled into surgery.

To be continued.

Tank Tales: A new blog by an amateur aquarist

I haven't been posting much here on RTFACM because I have been busy posting over there.

Over a year ago I was given a tropical fish. Since then I have developed MTS (Multiple Tank Syndrome) and I am writing about my adventures* as an amateur aquarist.

You can check out Tank Tales on Blogger and Tumblr.

#tanktales

Enjoy!

*sounds more exciting than it actually is

Medicare is worth fighting for

We had a health scare in the family this afternoon and after I picked up my family member I debated whether to head to the public hospital emergency department or a doctor's clinic. The health scare was serious but didn't seem to be immediately life threatening so I called my local doctor.

They had no appointments, so I headed to the bulk billing clinic in Preston to see how long the waiting time was. There were 20 people with appointments to see 5 doctors and another 10 people who were waiting for the first available doctor. The receptionist took one look at my family member and decided to have her assessed by a nurse straight away.

Within 2 minutes (I'm not kidding) the nurse was with us and my family member was assessed. We were told a doctor would be with us shortly. Within 3 minutes (again, not kidding) the doctor arrived, conducted the examination, asked questions and diagnosed a severe allergic reaction.

10 minutes after we arrived we walked out with a diagnosis (and peace of mind), antihistamine and a doctor's certificate. We weren't charged for the assessment and diagnosis. We didn't take up a bed in an emergency department, we didn't take the doctor away from other patients for very long and we got the care we needed at no cost.

I know that it doesn't always work this way and sometimes it is just the luck of the draw, but to me this is a very clear sign that Medicare works.

If there had been a co-payment (as our govt wants to introduce) I am certain I would have gone straight to the hospital emergency department and would either still be sitting there waiting or, more importantly, we would be taking up a hospital bed unnecessarily.

Medicare works and it's worth fighting for.
http://www.savemedicare.org.au/

Can you lend some ass-istance?

My friend Anna is an awesome lady.

She runs Australia's premiere go-go academy and has taught thousands of Melbournians the greatest fad dances ever created. Anna's go-go classes are legendary and everyone who goes along walks away smiling, chock full of good vibes. There's a nice warm buzz from the exercise too!

Anna is a feminist and a music, fashion and culture connoisseur with a big heart. She's a woman with a quick wit, a sharp mind, an infectious laugh and the best hair you'll ever see in your life!

She is the Principal of Anna's Go-Go Academy, the creative and technical mastermind of extravaganzas like Thrill the World Melbourne and So You Drink, You Can Dance and she has taught tens of thousands of people the art of go-go dancing at The Falls Festival and White Night Melbourne.

And now, Anna's making a documentary about something that's close to all of us. Our bums!

It's called 'Does My Bum Look Big In This Documentary' and it's going to be amazing.

Anna is one of the most funny and insightful people I've ever met. She's got a terrific production team headed up by Rebekah Holt and the director is Jonathan Brough - he directed Time of Our Lives and It's A Date for ABC. The end product will be fabulous. Who doesn't love bums, right?

To make this film, Anna needs your help. And she needs it in the next couple of days.

So I am asking you to get behind The Bum Project.

You can contribute as little as $5 to receive Anna and Rebekah's heartfelt thanks.- every contribution helps! If you can contribute a little bit more there are perks on offer to thank you for your largesse.

Anything you can contribute will help get this show on the road, and on the air.

Check out The Bum Project on Indiegogo and Facebook, and watch this clip from the Today show.

Get cracking!

Get off the couch, go see a show

There is a fact that I must face: I am no spring chicken. This salient point has been demonstrated to me by the sheer physical and mental exhaustion I am experiencing after nightly sojourns to comedy shows.

I have spent most evenings in the last week or so sitting in dark rooms while friends and strangers have bared their own souls, and prodded me to discover (or rediscover) parts of mine. I have chuckled and I have winced, I have had my thoughts provoked and my fancy tickled. I have heard gags that made me laugh so much I thought I might stop breathing, and I have heard jokes so cheesy you could spread them on a cracker.

We are ten days in to the Melbourne International Comedy Festival and I feel like I've seen a fair swag of shows already. By the end of this evening I will have seen 9 shows, but when you consider that this year's Festival features 430 shows, I have barely scratched the surface. There are plenty more shows on my “to see” list, but time, money and my dwindling pool of physical energy mean I will be lucky if I manage to see any more shows this festival. (Unless of course you're offering me a comp to your show, to which my answer is: hells yes!)

Some folks go hard and try to crack the funny tonne (100 shows in the space of a four week festival). Other folks will see one show only. Plenty more won't even bother to show up at all; and that is tragic.

Performers spend months writing, refining, rehearsing, funding and staging their shows, and most do all of this while holding down a day job so they can pay the rent. Plenty will take leave (often unpaid) to stage their show, and there will be some that don't make enough money for it to be worth their while – some may not even make their money back. There are considerable costs to stage a show – festival entry free, venue hire, ticketing agent fees, props, costumes, tech equipment hire, tech staff, publicity and other production costs. Every ticket sold increases the likelihood of a performer being paid for their time and effort.

So get off the couch, turn off the telly, leave the house and go see a live performance.

It doesn't have to be comedy, and it doesn't have to be during the Festival. Go to a music gig or a music festival. Go to a spoken word event or a poetry slam. Go and see dance, theatre, mime, or puppetry. See a performer that you love. See someone you've never heard of before. See anything. See everything. Just go.

And just in case your mind is already filling with reasons you can't go out, I have prepared a list of common excuses for not going out, and rebutted each one. Common, I hear you ask. Common to who? Well...me. Yes, I have invoked all of these excuses at one time or another. But if I can change my ways, so you can you!

Common excuses for not going to live performances

I'm tired

Aren't we all? But nothing will perk you up quicker than seeing a good live performance. It might feel like a struggle to get out the front door, but the reward will repay the effort tenfold. If the thought of rocking up to a show that starts at 10pm on a school night really does make your eyes roll back in your head, look for gigs scheduled early in the evening, or even during the day. And if the show you want to see is on late, well, it's only one night. You've got the rest of your life to catch up on sleep.

I can't afford it

I hear you, I really do. Ticket prices for some international acts, and music festivals, can take a large chunk out of your weekly budget. But considering a ticket to most comedy festival shows will set you back $22-$35, equivalent to a sum you probably spend on booze each week, it's really not too high a price to pay for a great experience.

There are plenty of ways of reducing the spend on tickets too. For expample, Comedy Festival offers cheap tickets for preview shows and on Tightarse Tuesdays. Keep your eye out for ticket giveaways, and get on mailing lists that offer cheap or free tickets. If there's a performer that you really like, get on their mailing list. Get on venue mailing lists, as well as festival mailing lists, so you don't miss out on special offers and previews.

Like the Comedy Festival on Facebook, and follow #micf on Twitter for last minute specials and giveaways. And sometimes, if you head out on the first couple of nights of Comedy Festival and just hang out at the venues, there's a chance that you may be offered a freebie or a 2 for 1 deal to see an unknown act, just to get your bum on their seat.

I can't find a babysitter for the kids

Granted, that is a tricky situation if your kids are babies or toddlers. But if they're school age, consider taking them with you! By avoiding venues that have strict over-18's only policy you can usually find a show that won't offend your offspring's delicate sensibilities. And if it does, so what? It's just another experience in the rich tapestry of life, and you'll be there to support them through it.

A recent survey revealed that an alarming number of school age kids don't know where food comes from - 27% believed yoghurt grows on trees. Would a survey on entertainment show that kids think performers live inside the TV? Don't let this happen to your child.

If you're already taking your children to see Play School concerts, Hi-5 or The Wiggles – congratulations, that's a great first step. Comedy Festival offers kids comedy shows that are fun for adults too. You can all have a laugh together, and it sure beats having Big Red Car stuck in your head.

It's too far

If a performer can travel to a gig night in night out then you can too. Most performers probably live further from the venue than you do. Listen to your favourite music on the way there and back to make your journey less arduous, and if you see something that moves you, entertains you or inspires you, then it will have been well worth the trip.

It's too cold

Harden up people. Wear a jacket, and a scarf. And don't forget that a great live performance can warm the cockles of your heart. Sitting in a packed small venue with heat radiating from the stage lights will warm you up pretty quickly too.

I've got no-one to go with

You'll only need to buy one ticket then – see, you're saving money already! It's hard to feel lonely when your sitting in an audience and the lights have gone down, because you are sharing the experience with a number of people. Most audience members are lovely - look for other people on their own, and sit next to them. Strike up a conversation with people in the bar before or after the show, or simply enjoy the fact that you don't need to be conscious of another person's reactions and can just respond to this experience in your own way. If you feel the need to connect with people that you know, well, that's what social media is for. Just make sure you turn your phone off while the show is on.

It's comfy here on the couch

That's true, and it's also true that seating in some venues leaves a lot to be desired. But you only have to endure an uncomfortable seat for a short stint and the couch will still be there when you get home. Some of life's best experiences happen when you step outside your comfort zone, or in this case, when you roll yourself off the couch.

Packed to the Rafters/Home and Away/My Kitchen Rules is on

Relax. Some channels have 'catch-up tv services' and if you have access to a DVD library or shop, or an internet connection, you won't miss anything on the telly. No amount of close-up filming can replicate the potency of flecks of spittle or sweat landing on or near your person courtesy of an enthusiastic performer enduring hot stage lighting. Nothing beats laughing along with a crowd, or brushing up against strangers at a packed concert, or belting out your favourite tunes along with the rest of the audience.

What if it's shit? What if I don't like it?

What if it is? What if you don't? Life's a gamble innit? Despite the fact that I have invoked these excuses, and therefore missed a lot of things, I have still managed to catch quite a few performances over the years. Very few of them could be described as shit, and you get something out of the experience even if it is a shit one. I can only think of one show that was a complete and utter waste of everyone's time. It was staged during Melbourne Fringe Festival a few years ago, and it was truly awful. It was a family show (as in a whole family appeared on stage), so not only did the adults make absolute arses of themselves, but they dragged their wee kiddies into the mire as well. It was the longest hour and twenty minutes (to add insult to injury it went over time) of my life, and when it was over, my ever-discerning children scowled at me and declared that it was “terrible” and the “worst show ever.” I wholeheartedly agreed, and we managed to laugh about it. As far as I can tell, this act has never made another appearance, indicating that the shit suff usually gets weeded out pretty swiftly. If you really want to avoid questionable acts, do your homework. Look for reviews (both international and Australian) and get word of mouth recommendations.

Convinced? Book tix for Melbourne International Comedy Festival shows here.

What have I seen so far? (and what did I think)

Laurence Leung – Beginning, Middle End, Trades Hall (3.5 stars)
Denise Scott – Regrets, Comedy Theatre (4 stars)
Geraldine Hickey – Turns Out I Do Like Sun Dried Tomatoes, Portland Hotel (3.5 stars)
Asher Treleaven – Troubadour, Melbourne Town Hall (3 stars)
Carl-Einer Hackner – Handluggage, Melbourne Town Hall (4 stars)
Felicity Ward – The Hedgehog Dilemma, Victoria Hotel (5 stars)
Fiona Harris & Mike McLeish – Plus One, Trades Hall (4 stars)
Dead Cat Bounce – Howl of the She-Leopard, Trades Hall (2.5 stars)

What am I going to see?

Die Roten Punkte – Eurosmash, The Famous Spiegeltent at Arts Centre Melbourne

What would I like to see?

Celia Pacquola – Delayed
Andrew McLelland, Asher Treleaven, Celia Pacqola & Sammy J – Tie Her To The Tracks
Tim Ferguson – Carry A Big Stick
Judith Lucy – Nothing Fancy
Kate McLennan – Homeward Bound
Justin Hamilton – The Goodbye Guy
Daniel Kitson
Bob Franklin & Stephen Gates – Stubborn Monkey Disorder
Adam Richard & Justin Hamilton – The Shelf
Anyone for Tennis?
Bedroom Philosopher's The High Schoool Assembly
Cal Wilson is All Ears
Contact!
Wanda Sykes
Paul Foot – Still Life
Political Asylum's Late Night Riot
Josh Earl is XXX
and the list goes on and on and on.