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| Jerry Custer still keeps the wedding rings that he and Kim picked out together when they decided to get married. Jerry Custer talked about Kim's life and the hopes that they would one day get married from his west Tulsa home on Wednesday, August 6, 2014. Jerry and Kim Woodard lived together for 20 years before Kim died at the end of July. JOHN CLANTON/Tulsa WorldThey’d been a couple almost 20 years when last October Kim Woodard turned to Jerry Custer and said: “Let’s get married! |
The west Tulsa couple researched hotels online, found a florist, bought rings and new clothes.
They booked plane tickets to California, where months earlier, the 9th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals struck down a voter-approved ban on same-sex marriage.
But a week before they were supposed to leave, Woodard sprained his ankle and could not travel. Not long after that, his overall health started to go downhill.
The silver wedding bands stayed in their boxes. They never made it to California.
Woodard died July 23, before he and Custer could marry, before any of the gay or lesbian couples in Oklahoma had a chance to do what many have waited a long time for: to make it official.
Legality and destiny
Last week, the Tulsa County court clerk asked the U.S. Supreme Court to review a federal appeals court decision striking down Oklahoma’s ban on same-sex marriage.
In 2004, Oklahoma voters overwhelmingly approved a state question amending the constitution to specify that marriage between people of the same gender was not “valid or recognized.”
Article II, section 35 of the Oklahoma Constitution reads: “Marriage in this state shall consist only of the union of one man and one woman. Neither this Constitution nor any other provision of law shall be construed to require that marital status or the legal incidents thereof be conferred upon unmarried couples or groups.”
Other state’s same-sex marriages would not be recognized, and anyone knowingly issuing a marriage license in violation would be guilty of a misdemeanor.
A few days before Woodard died, the 10th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals ruled Oklahoma’s law was unconstitutional, upholding a Tulsa federal judge’s view that it violated the 14th Amendment guarantees to due process and equal protection under the law.
A petition filed by the Alliance Defending Freedom on behalf of Tulsa County Court Clerk Sally Smith, argues that the U.S. Supreme Court should “return to the People this critical issue of marriage policy.” The Alliance is a Christian legal group based in Arizona.
“The People throughout the various States are engaged in an earnest public debate about the meaning, purpose, and future of marriage ...” the appeal states. “The Tenth Circuit’s decision in this case, if allowed to stand, would end this robust political debate. That court expanded the fundamental right to marry to include all relationships that provide ‘emotional support’ and express ‘public commitment.’ ”
Smith was sued by two residents of Tulsa County, Mary Bishop and Sharon Baldwin, when their request for a marriage license was denied a few months after Oklahoma’s law passed. Bishop is an editor at the Tulsa World and Baldwin is a former employee. They’ve been a couple for nearly 18 years.
Many expect the same-sex marriage issue and Smith’s appeal to be an unavoidable issue for the U.S. Supreme Court when it returns from recess Oct. 6.
Purely by coincidence, the final rescheduled wedding date for Custer and Woodard was to be Oct. 7, 2014.
A life of bear hugs
Among the remnants of factories and burned-down barbecue joints that line Charles Page Boulevard sits Woodard and Custer’s little white house with both names hand-painted on the mailbox.
That was the first thing Woodard did after he moved in with Custer in 1995, about six months into dating. They met at a dinner party, and one of their first dates was a bike ride along the Sand Springs trail. Custer was an avid cyclist, and Woodard bought a Schwinn, hoping to keep up.
While Custer, 62, was born on a U.S. Air Force base in Canada, both were from families with deep roots in Oklahoma and spent most of their lives here.
Custer was the outgoing chatterbox, who worked in science testing labs for private companies and the City of Tulsa before moving onto sales. He smiles constantly, and his conversations are punctuated with deep belly laughs.
Woodard was the shy, quiet introvert who worked as a letter carrier in Tulsa and was intensely proud of his family’s Cherokee heritage. He had a low, sultry voice that made family think he missed his calling as a radio announcer.
Custer was “Teddy Bear,” and taller, broad-shouldered Woodard was “Grizzly Bear.”
Woodard insisted that they start each day with a bear hug before leaving the house and hug again when they came home.
A silent disease
The two typically told each other everything, but there was one secret Woodard was keeping: When he’d had gastric bypass surgery in 2007, doctors discovered he had NASH, or nonalcoholic steatohepatitis. It’s an often “silent” liver disease that occurs in people who drink little to no alcohol.
At the time, his liver was a normal size and he wasn’t worried.
Then in November 2013, when the couple had postponed their California wedding plans, Woodard began retaining alarming amounts of water in his belly. An ultrasound showed his liver was enlarged. He couldn’t keep the disease a secret any longer.
Five out of his last seven months were spent in the OSU Medical Center. The 60-year-old would start getting stronger and then get sick again.
The NASH ultimately led to cirrhosis, permanent liver damage that eventually stops it from functioning.
The doctors started talking to them about in-home hospice care. They said Woodard might have six months.
Thirteen days later, Grizzly Bear died.
The last words he whispered to Custer, his love: “Teddy Bear — it’s OK, it’s OK, it’s OK.”
A final wish
When U.S. District Judge Terence C. Kern overturned Oklahoma’s same-sex marriage ban earlier this year, it gave Woodard and Custer a tiny glint of hope: Maybe Woodard would live long enough to marry in his home state.
“It was like a race for time,” Custer said.
But the court stayed the ruling pending an anticipated appeal, so gay and lesbian couples would still have to wait or travel to other states to marry.
“There was no way to keep him alive that long,” Custer said.
Woodard’s final wish was to donate his organs and tissue because of his own liver disease and Custer’s kidney transplant a few years earlier.
His memorial service was at the Dennis R. Neill Equality Center.
They recited a Cherokee prayer and handed out Mardi Gras beads because they didn’t want Woodard’s memorial to be so sad. Custer’s 83-year-old mother and 86-year-old father drove all the way from Florida: Woodard was their son-in-law, even if the couple hadn’t been able to make it legal.
Woodard’s death certificate was the hardest part, Custer said.
“I lived here with him for 20 years,” Custer said, his voice growing quiet. “On relationship, I had to put down: friend.”
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