The emotional services can last hours, and McCoy finds them a respite to prepare for another week.
Back on Cleveland Avenue, after McCoy blew the plywood off the house, she and her squad members - Joe Leffe, Dave Long and Jeff Mills - pulled down burnt wood from the bedroom ceiling as black soot landed on their shoulders.
The heat had melted part of McCoy's helmet - a badge of honor for a firefighter.
They were in the burning house for 15 minutes.
Once outside, they squatted on the front lawn and turned off one another's air-tank valves. The bells indicating they were low on air finally were silent.
``That was pretty cool,'' she said to Long as both of them smiled.
``Yeah, the fire went up in the attic, and stuff kept falling,'' Long added.
``We had to pull down the ceiling. I shot the window out with water,'' she said. ``It looks pretty bad. I think they were planning to use that room a little more.''
She used the sleeve of her T-shirt to wipe the sweat from her forehead. Usually reserved, McCoy couldn't contain her excitement.
``It's about saving lives and people's property,'' she said, smiling ear to ear. ``It's what I've wanted to do since before my daughter was born.''
The long wait and hard work culminated July 9 at the academy.
Moments before her graduation ceremony, fellow recruits and firefighters stopped in the hallway to congratulate her. McCoy couldn't stop smiling.
``I always saw the light at the end of the tunnel,'' she said. ``It just took so long.''
She relished every moment of the hourlong ceremony - the marching, the bagpipes, the speeches.
Then the moment she'd worked for arrived.
``Trina C. McCoy,'' Capt. Blair announced.
Her family members and friends - 14 in all - screamed as she walked across the stage and took her certificate from Mayor Michael B. Coleman.