2,11 gets the works I Got Down to Bare Facts 
when I saw Doc Peters 
"Bill Williams, Age, 24," he writes down. "Height, 
five foot nine." "Weight, 172." 
Why am I here? "You want a job in this shop?" 
the employment manager asked me, "—you've got 
to have a doctor's checkup first." I tell him I need 
a checkup like I need a nail in the head. "Look," 
says the employment guy, "we got jobs and jobs 
here. Certain guys can only do certain jobs. The 
doctor sees that square peg guys don't get shoved 
into round hole jobs." So here I am now. The Doc took my medical 
history first. Followed my family tree right back to 
the acorns. Then— 
“You Weigh Too Much, Bill,” Doc says. "172? 
Ain't that normal?” "No such thing as 'normal',” 
he says. "Depends on each separate fellow's build, 
and age, and set up. Take off ten to fifteen pounds 
and you'll probably add 10 years to your life.” 
I Open My Mouth to ask him how come, 
when he says, "Say AH!” 
So I open my mouth and let him have an AH! 
"Tonsils, O. K. Your teeth look good, gums healthy— 
your dentist will check them for you. Now, blow 
through your nose, one side at a time." I blow. 
Right side blows like a whistle. Left side, a dead 
bugle. He tilts my head back and looks at something upstairs. "And I see your sinus is slightly inflamed. 
That—plus a blocked left nostril—builds the odds on 
your catching cold." "Ain't that normal?" "It 
definitely is not normal. You can avoid colds, if 
you're careful." Oh, I says. Who knows better, me 
or him? So I don't argue. 
“Can You Hear This?” he asks mp holding up a 
big watch. "Sure. One, two, three . . Well, 
my ears are okay—for hearing. But when he looks 
inside with a special flashlight gadget, he tells me 
my left ear has some wax packed down inside. 
"Nothing serious. I'll take it out before it turns into 
an earache." And he does—without usin' T. N. T. “Cover Your Left Eye.” I 
read this eye test chart back 
in school, so it's easy . . . 
T-P-E-O-L . . . 
Left eye, O. K. "Cover your 
right eye." B-T-C . . . Right 
eye, O. K. "Left eye, 20-20. 
Right, 20-20. That means you 
can read figures a little less 
than a half-inch high at a 
twenty-foot distance. You don't have to worry about 
handling a job with close, small work." 
He Puts a Stethoscope over my heart in different 
places. "You've got a good pump there," he says. 
"No leaks, no rattles, no gurgles. Just remember 
to take off a little of that extra weight—that extra 
load on your heart." He puts the stethoscope near 
my neck, then over on my back. 
“Say Ninety-Nine.” So I say ninety-nine over 
and over, while he listens to the echo at different 
ends of my lungs. "I'm going to take some chest 
X-rays, later," he says. That hits me. "Hey,M 
I croak, "don't tell me— 
T. B.?" "No, no," he 
laughs. "But how can I 
see your lungs without a 
picture? Chest X-ray gives 
me that double check." 
“How's Your Blood Pressure?" He wraps 
what looks like a silk stocking around my arm, and 
starts pumping air into it. "When this blows up 
to a certain air pressure," he explains (I guess I'm 
looking worried . . .) "it will squeeze your arm 
just tight enough to stop the blood for a second. 
That's your top blood pressure." "How'm I doin'?" 
I want to know. "Fine. 128. That's normal for your particular height, weight, and build." He 
lets the air out of this baby tire tube on my arm, and 
writes: Systolic blood pressure, 128. Diastolic, 82. 
"Dia—what?" 
"Look," he says, "your heart is a pump. It does 
enough work in a day to lift a ten-ton truck five 
feet. It squeezes blood through your system, and 
we call the squeeze 'systolic' blood pressure. It re- 
laxes for a second right after each squeeze, and 
that's 'diastolic' pressure. Got it?" Not exactly, 
but I nod my head yes. 
Then He Taps Me 
on the Stomach. 
"Get stomach aches?" "Only when I do some- 
thing wrong. Like eatin' too much." "Well," he smiles, "that's all right. Stand up. Cough." I give 
him a cough from the boots up. No rupture, he 
writes. "Your muscles are strong. If you watch 
yourself—and take some of that extra weight off 
your heart—you don't have to be afraid to do heavy 
work," he tells me. "Now sit down." Then he raps 
me below the kneecap with a little rubber hammer. 
My foot jumps. Automatic. "Reflexes, O. K." 
So Far, So Good. Then the Doc taps me with a 
needle inside the elbow. He strikes oil and takes a 
blood sample. He shows me how much blood he 
took. Just about enough to float a toothpick. "This 
blood," he explains, "will tell if you have syphilis." He also takes a few drops from my finger. "We'll 
see if your blood-color is red and rich enough. 
We'll count the red blood cells to see if enough 
oxygen is reaching your lungs and muscles. We'll 
count the white blood cells to see if you're prepared 
to fight germ invasions. Wonderful stuff, blood." 
And that's no he, I think. 
Then I give him a urine sample. This, he says 
while I start to dress, tells him if I have diabetes, or 
any kidney trouble. 
“It's a Good Thing You Got a Checkup before 
taking a job, Bill," says Doc. "This medical record 
gives us a yardstick. Next time you come in, it'll 
be easier to measure which way your health has 
gone, up or down." 
"What do you mean," I ask, "by 'next time'?" 
“We Give Regular, Periodic Checkups here. 
Why? For the same reason you check up regu- 
larly on your car. Fellows who wouldn't run a 
car without oil, go around hitting on only two cylin- 
ders themselves. They don't know they're losing 
power. First thing, they're sick. Lost time, lost pay checks. They need periodic examinations. If 
you think you're healthy, and the checkup proves 
you're right, you know you are. If you need med- 
ical care—or if some hazard on the job is affecting 
your health—the checkup will show what's wrong. 
Then you can catch it quick." (You said a mouth- 
ful, Doc, I think to myself . . .) 
"You're lucky," continues Doc, "this shop is 
up-to-date. We have engineered safety in the 
shop; we have medical safety in here to match it. 
Safety machinery can break down, so we check it. 
We'll give you regular checkups, also, to make sure 
none of the chemicals, gases, or dust on the job 
get you down before you yourself can detect what's 
happening." 
"How about the fellows who don't have doctors 
in their shops?" I ask. "They can see their family 
doctor, or the union doctor. No matter where you get 
it, a checkup is good health insurance. That's why 
you were smart to come in here and cooperate, Bill." 
Maybe he isn't wrong, at that! I'm not Einstein, 
but now when it comes to knowin' where I stand, 
I'm not so dumb! Workers7 Health Series 
No. 1 But Flu Is Tougher 
No. 2 Leonard's Appendix—And How It Burst 
No. 3 KO by CO Gas 
No. 4 Clara Gives Benzol the Run Around 
No. 5 Trouble in the Midriff 
No. 6 Bill Gets the Works 
U. S. PUBLIC HEALTH SERVICE 
FEDERAL SECURITY AGENCY 
Workers/ Health Series—No. 6 
For sale by the Superintendent of Documents. Price 5 cents 
United States Government Printing Office 
Washington : 1942 
16-27071-1