Editor's Note
HME's Giant Steps
Diversifying your business requires reliable information -- and sometimes a leap of faith.
- By David Kopf
- May 01, 2017
When I was a kid, I had one mortal enemy:
the high dive. Somehow, the high dive at the local
recreation center seemed designed to regularly
mock me. When you’re standing on the ground
by the deep end, the high dive looks so easy to
conquer: it’s not that tall; the pool is probably three
times as deep as it needs to be; all the other kids
are easily jumping off it with glee — heck some of
them are even doing tricks.
So, with routinely trumped up confidence I’d
saunter up to the line of kids waiting to climb up
the high dive’s ladder. Kid by kid would take a
turn, clambering up, coolly walking the length of
the board to the end, perhaps taking a bounce or
two, and then launching into space for what had
to be the wildest, most exhilarating ride of their
life. It had to be — you could tell by the ear-to-ear
grin of Chiclet-white teeth they’d have plastered on
their faces when they’d finally surface.
I wanted to smile that smile.
So, I would wait in line until it was finally my
turn, confidently make my ascent up the slippery,
aluminum ladder, walk out to the end of the board,
and then my world would completely change.
Somehow, that high dive must’ve shot 500 feet into
the air when I wasn’t looking. I’d peer down and
the view would be nothing short of precipitous.
The pool looked like a half-full thimble from all
the way up there. I might as well have been Sir
Edmund Hillary atop Mt. Everest. My breathing
shallowed, my pulse felt like Gene Kruppa
hammering on a snare drum, a Grand Canyonsized
pit would suddenly form in my stomach.
And then, I would predictably chicken out. Oh,
I’d try to steel myself against the complete horror.
I’d remind myself that other kids had been diving
all day long. I’d tell myself I could close my eyes
and it’d be over before I knew it. I did everything
possible to keep myself from having to turn
around and slowly, painstakingly climb down the
ladder, and slink past all those smirking kids in
humiliated defeat.
And yet I would repeat that very process time
and time again. Talk about a walk of shame.
Then, one day, I simply dove off the high dive.
There was no line. The climb up was easy. I walked
to the end, and I dropped off with no muss, fuss, or
soul-crushing terror. I can’t explain what changed.
I simply switched off the fear and went. And then
I repeated that process — now in triumph — over
and over again, to my heart’s content. Feet first,
head first, swan dive, jackknife, flip, pretending to
accidentally walk off. I tell you, I was practically
hamming it up now that I had tamed the springboard
beast of the public pool.
Diversifying a provider business presents a
similar prospect. In theory, it’s easy to talk about
it. The market potential for this new niche is clear
and well defined. The referral partners are in place
and so are the patients. In fact, some of them are
preexisting relationships. The funding sources are
clear and the sales staff has been doing their homework.
Billing knows how to process the claims.
Management knows the vendor resources and the
right products. This job can be done.
And then the talk ends, and it is time to strike
out and start building the relationships and trying
to take things from idea to implementation; from
plan to practice. That’s when that high dive starts
rocketing into the stratosphere, and the height is
more than dizzying.
In this issue, we’ve presented wound care as a
solid diversification opportunity for providers (see
“Financial First Aid”), and we’ve tried to
help you turn off the fear by providing as much
information as we can from some key industry
experts. There’s solid market potential and there’s
a pathway to get to it. We’ve outlined a directory
of vendors. And, if that wasn’t enough, we’re
presenting two free webinars (thanks to sponsors
McKesson Corp.) to help you dig even deeper.
Hopefully this will help you stride down the board
and confidently take the plunge.
Recently, my kids and I went cliff jumping in a cenoté (a gigantic, limestone sinkhole) in Mexico. I
climbed up, two of my daughters stood on either
side of me, and we dove in. But the height looked
twice as tall at the top, my pulse clearly redlined,
and the initial fall took forever. But we also couldn’t
wait to go again. The experience reminded me that,
without the fear, you’d never have the thrill.
This article originally appeared in the May 2017 issue of HME Business.
About the Author
David Kopf is the Publisher and Executive Editor of HME Business and DME Pharmacy magazines. Follow him on LinkedIn at linkedin.com/in/dkopf/ and on Twitter at @postacutenews.