As he approaches the automatic door, each step provoking his groin to send cheery messages - nothing happens. Nothing ever happens when he approaches automatic doors, he's like the ghost who forgot his own death.
He's fed through revolving doors where the PR waits at reception, swiping her iPhone, impatient, seeking messages from God or outer space. Having checked his identity she leads the way, skirt tight, short, yet un-alluring, to a cramped lift where they face front in silence, then along a corridor whose sterility comforts his OCD-lite sensibilities. He's shown into a room containing bed, table, flatscreen screwed to the wall on which the hospital logo weaves.